"Bathroom," I announce to no one. "I'm going to the bathroom now. For... bathroom reasons."
The bathroom is all gleaming marble and totally insufficient for hiding from what just happened.
I brace my hands on the sink. Stare at my reflection.
My hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket. Lips swollen. Cheeks flushed. Pupils blown.
I just came. Hard. On West Prescott's lap. Through myclothes.
The best orgasm of my life—theonlyone that didn't involve a battery-operated assist and my own imagination.
And he came too.
"Wow," I whisper to my reflection. "Okay. This is fine. This is totally fine. People have accidents all the time. Professional accidents. Educational accidents. This was basically a workplace injury. OSHA-reportable, probably."
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I splash cold water on my face and clean myself up with a face towel. Try to slow my racing heart. Try to forget the sound West made right before he came—that broken, desperate groan that's now permanently etched into my brain.
Try to forget that I want to hear it again.
Stop it, Jane.
There's a sound from the other room. Water running. The shower.
Oh, he's in the shower.
I peel off my damp shorts and underwear, leaving them in a mortified pile on the floor. There's a robe hanging on the back of the door—oversized, hotel-white, blessedly impersonal. I pull it on, tying the belt tight.
Then I wait. Listen.
The shower is still running in the other bathroom.
This is my chance.
I crack the door open. Peer out. The living room is empty. West's closed bathroom door shows a line of light underneath, steam probably fogging up the mirror as he washes away the evidence of our spectacularly unprofessional evening.
I dart across the room like a burglar, the robe flapping around my knees. My suitcase is tucked in the closet by the bedroom. I dig through it with shaking hands, grabbing sleep shorts and a tank top—clean, dry, normal pajamas for a normal person who definitely didn't just have a mind-altering orgasm during a "professional lesson."
The shower shuts off.
Shit.
I scramble back toward the bathroom, clutching the clothes, moving on silent feet. Almost there. Almost—
The shower door opens.
I freeze.
Weststeps out in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, his hair wet and dark, water still beading on his shoulders. He stops when he sees me.
We stare at each other across the living room.
Me: barefoot in a resort robe, guilty as charged.
Him: half-naked and dripping.
"I'm just grabbing my pajamas," I blurt out, holding up the clothes like evidence.
