It starts with a kiss. Him pulling me up from the bed and capturing my mouth with his. Then his hands are at the hem of my shirt, tugging upward, and I'm reaching for the buttons of his flannel, and somewhere between the bedroom and bathroom my shirt hits the floor.
His flannel follows.
By the time we reach the shower, we're both down to nothing.
Jake reaches past me to turn on the water, his chest pressed against my back, his breath hot on my neck. Steam begins to fill the small space.
"Get in," he murmurs against my ear.
I step under the spray. The hot water hits my shoulders like a blessing, washing away the long day, the dust and sugar and exhaustion. Then Jake steps in behind me and nothing else matters.
He turns me to face him.
For a moment we just stand there, water cascading over us, looking at each other. Really looking. No pretense, no barriers, nothing between us but steam and want.
"You're beautiful," he says.
"You're biased."
"Doesn't make it less true."
He reaches for the shampoo, some generic man brand that smells like cedar, and pours some into his palm. Then his hands are in my hair, massaging my scalp, working the lather through my tangled waves.
I close my eyes and let myself feel it. His strong fingers. The hot water. The intimacy of being cared for like this.
"Tip your head back."
I do, and he rinses the shampoo away, careful to keep it out of my eyes. Then he reaches for the soap.
"My turn," I say, intercepting him.
I lather up my hands and start with his chest, tracing the planes of muscle, the dark hair, the small scar on his left side I hadn't noticed before. He watches me with hooded eyes as I work my way down his arms, across his stomach, around to his back.
"You're thorough," he manages.
"I believe in doing things right."
He takes the soap from me and returns the favor. Slower, more deliberate. His hands slide over my shoulders, down my arms, across my collarbone. He cups my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I gasp.
"Jake—"
He kisses me. Deep and searching, his tongue sliding against mine, his hands still moving over my slick skin. The water falls down on us as he backs me against the cool tile wall.
"I've been thinking about this," he murmurs against my mouth. "Every night for five days."
"What specifically?"
His hand slides down my stomach. Lower. "This."
When his fingers find me, I cry out. He swallows the sound with another kiss, his hand working between my thighs with devastating precision.
"That's it," he breathes. "Let me feel you."
The combination of his mouth on mine and his fingers inside me is almost too much. I grip his shoulders, my nails digging in, as the pressure builds and builds.
"Jake—I'm going to—"
"I know." He presses his forehead to mine, watching my face. "Let go, Madison. I've got you."
