21
MARGEAUX
My insides turnto mush when he calls me ‘beautiful.’ I like that he so easily hands over the reins and is comfortable with me controlling the situation. It tells me that he’s following my lead, rather than dictating what he thinks I should do. And at this moment, I needallthe control. I need to dictate what does and doesn’t happen. Right now, I need Doctor Jon naked with soapy water all over his body, with his strong hands all over mine.
I do my best sexy strut to the single bathroom in my apartment. It’s not much. It’s a typical mass-produced bathroom with all white tile, a white shower-bath combination, a white toilet, and a white sink and vanity. One of the everyday nuisances of being a woman blessed with height is how low the sink is. I also struggle to find showers that I can fit under or have room to move around without feeling claustrophobic. My bathroom has a decent-sized shower, but my sink is about half a foot lower than I’d like it to be.
Keeping my back to him, I strip my shirt off, it’s still sweaty from training. I get a little self-conscious because I know I don’t smell great, but I’ve started this and I’m committed to seeing this through. I need this.I need him.
“No back tattoos? That’s surprising,” he says, leaning in thedoorway with his arms crossed. I literally beat the shit out of this guy five minutes ago, and now, he’s watching me undress for a shower.What is he even doing here?
I look at him over my shoulder and get a good look at him. He’s in a simple pair of pants and a black sweater. He’s such a prep.
“Yea, I have ideas for a back piece. Just need to decide on it, and then pick the right artist,” I tell him over my shoulder.
“What kind of design are you thinking?” he asks. I’m doing my best to conceal my smile. I’m really glad he’s here. Not just because I’m freaked out over my creepy stalker. Jon helps me feel more calm. I don’t know how he has this effect on me. We barely know each other.
Making well-thought out decisions isn’t exactly my forte. When it comes to Jon, it doesn’t seem like a bad decision. Are we completely, one hundred percent wrong for each other? Absolutely. Do I still want him? Fuckyes.
I turn the shower on, closing the dark blue shower curtain to trap in the steam and heat. “A sand timer,” I say, remembering he asked me a question.
“A sand timer?”
“Yea. A broken sand timer. Where the glass is broken at the bottom and the sand is leaking out.”
“What’s the symbolism behind that for you?”
“That time escapes us, and we can’t get it back. It’s better to live in the moment and live your life the way you want it. No regrets.”
“You don’t have any regrets?” he asks.
I gasp, feeling like the wind got knocked out of me.
“Just one.” I shiver, refusing to think about that night right now. “You?”
“Plenty,” he chuckles to himself. “Too many.”
I give him a second, in case he wants to talk about one of those regrets.
“So, a broken sand timer. A reminder to live in the moment,” he says.
“Mmmhm.”
I lean back against the too-small sink in my leggings and sports bra.Jon is still leaning against the doorway. Steam is filling this small bathroom. It’s getting hot.
“Hm. Interesting perspective. Is that why you like to be impulsive?Reckless?” He arches a thick, brown brow at me.
“I’m not reckless. I just don’t spend as much time weighing the pros and cons of a situation. Life should be fun. I don’t want to look back at my life in twenty-five, thirty years, and wish I’d lived more.”
“Is that what we’re doing right now? Making a not-so-calculated decision? Living life. Having fun.”
“Are you not having fun, Doc?” I smile at him. I glance at his crotch, and I can see his dick firming up beneath his pants.
“I never said that. I guess I’m just making a lot of reckless decisions since meeting you.”
Between his heated gaze, his busted lip, and all this fucking steam, I need to cool off somehow. I shimmy my leggings down my legs. Taking leggings off sweaty and sticky legs is not a sexy look. And, of course, they get fucking stuck around my ankles. I yank them off, making the fabric snap from the tension. Jon gives a small laugh at my expense. I brush it off and give him an expression that says,I meant to do that.
“Like what?” I ask, playing dumb. Sweat is dripping down his temples and getting lost in the neckline of that preppy sweater he’s wearing so well. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, showing his lean forearms. I never noticed the separation of the muscles in his lower arm, and the veins pulsing on the back of his hands.
