A knock on the bathroom door makes me jump, water sloshing over the side.
"Jess?" Carlos's voice, muffled through the wood. "Dinner's in twenty. Sergio made pot roast."
I look at the door. At the unlocked handle. At the steam curling through the air.
At the decision I'm about to make.
"Door's open," I hear myself say.
Silence. Long enough that I think maybe he didn't hear me. Long enough that I start to second-guess myself.
Then the door opens.
Carlos steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click. His eyes find me in the tub, surrounded by bubbles, and something hot and hungry flashes across his face before he banks it.
"Hi." My voice comes out breathier than I want.
"Hi yourself." He leans against the counter, arms crossed, but his knuckles are white. Tension radiates off him. "You sure about this?"
"About what?"
"Inviting me into the bathroom while you're naked in a tub." His voice has gone rough. Deep. "Because I'm trying real hard to be a gentleman here, Jess, and you're not making it easy."
I sink a little lower in the bubbles. My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it. "My shoulders hurt. From carrying lumber yesterday. I thought maybe you could help."
"Help." He repeats the word slowly. Testing it. "With your shoulders."
"If you want."
He pushes off the counter. Moves toward the tub with deliberate steps. Drops to his knees beside it, and suddenly his face is level with mine, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes.
"If I put my hands on you," he says quietly, "I'm not gonna want to stop at your shoulders."
"Then don't stop."
His jaw tightens. "You're killing me."
"Good."
A rough laugh escapes him. "Turn around. Let me see what we're working with."
I shift in the tub, presenting him with my back. Water sloshes. Bubbles slide down my shoulders. I hear him suck in a breath.
"Jesus, Jess. You're covered in bruises."
"Lumber is heavy."
"You should've told me. I would've carried more." His hands hover over my shoulders. I can feel the heat of them even without contact. "This okay?"
"Yes."
His palms settle on my shoulders and I nearly moan at the contact. His hands are rough with calluses, warm and strong, and when he starts to knead the knotted muscles, I have to bite my lip to keep quiet.
"Too hard?" he asks.
"No. Perfect. Don't stop."
He works his thumbs into the tight spots along my shoulder blades. Slow circles. Firm pressure. The kind of touch that hurts in the best way, pain and relief mixing until I can't tell the difference.
