“What?” My pulse raced.
“So I can wash your hair. That’s what you wanted, right? Or was there something else?” His eyes blazed, and my breath caught in my throat.
“No. Right. My hair.”
What the hell was wrong with me? I’d lost my virginitycenturiesyears ago, and here I was acting like I’d never seen a naked man. But that may as well have been true, because I’d never seenthisnaked man. I’d never seen the way water poured down his chest, trailing across abs that couldn’t have been better defined if they’d been carved from marble. I’d never seen the way he seemed to take up the entire shower, and how not touching him was a struggle. An effort I wasn’t sure I really wanted to expend.
I turned away from him reluctantly, breathing deeply with my eyes closed as hot water beat on my chest and stomach. I’d never felt such simultaneous anticipation and dread of a single touch. If I were thinking clearly, I would’ve had to acknowledge that Cale Murphy was dangerous. That he was bad for my focus—which made him bad for my life expectancy.
But I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t thinkingat all. I couldn’t. Especially once he touched me.
He gathered my hair gently but deliberately, piling it on top of my head with confidence and skill few men possess naturally.He’s done this before. No doubt about it.
His hand brushed my cheek, collecting a stray strand, and I exhaled as heat spread across my skin from the spot he’d touched. He massaged the shampoo into my hair methodically, starting at my hairline and working his way toward my neck. His hands were strong and confident, and with each touch, more tension drained from my shoulders. My injured arm fell slowly to hang at my side. His hands on my scalp felt so good I began to wonder why I’d tried to do it myself in the first place. And whether I ever would again.
When every inch of my scalp was clean and soapy, he gathered my hair in a lather-bound bun. His hand settled on my left shoulder, its weight warm, and wet, and delicious. I held my breath, knowing I should pull away, but not quite able to do it. Stepping out from under his touch would be like not drinking when I was thirsty. Not sleeping when I was tired. It would be denying myself something I needed to survive.
His breath swept my skin an instant before his lips touched my neck, just below my ear. My head tilted all on its own, giving him better access. “You said you’d be good,” I practically moaned.
“Is this not good?” His chin skimmed my shoulder as he spoke, beard stubble scratching me in exquisite contrast to the light caress of his lips.
And itwasgood—much better than a simple brush of lips should have been. It was an erotically charged preview. A promise of so much more to come.
I should have pushed him away and ordered him out of the bathroom. It was unprofessional to get involved with… With what? Murphy wasn’t my client. He wasn’t my employee. And he was no longer my target, since the client had put out a hit on me, effectively nullifying our agreement.
Suddenly the reasonsnotto get involved with Cale Murphy were no longer as clear as they’d been moments before.
Murphy’s hand slid slowly down my good arm, his touch gentle, yet eager. His arm curled around my waist, hand spread across the flat part of my lower stomach. He hesitated, as if unsure which direction to go from there. Then he pulled me close, and I felt him pressed against my back.Allof him. His skin was hot against mine. His touch was urgent and all-encompassing, chasing all thought from my mind, leaving nothing but primal longing and erotic compulsion.
Strong fingers slid up my stomach and over my ribcage. My heart slammed against my sternum, and I realized I was breathing through my mouth. Panting, as if I couldn’t get oxygen fast enough. His lips found my earlobe, sucking greedily. My good arm arched behind me, searching for a handful of…anything Murphy. I found the back of his thigh and groped upward until the firm curve of his backside filled my palm.
I leaned into him, resting the back of my head against his shoulder. His fingers brushed the underside of my breast, and I closed my eyes as need flooded my body. His thumb rubbed my nipple. I gasped, not quite surprised to find it already hard. He lifted my breast, squeezing as his free hand curled around my hip, holding me against him, and that was all I could take.
I twisted around in his grip, and my mouth found his before my feet even found purchase on the bottom of the tub. His hands trailed over my back to cup my ass, squeezing. I pressed myself into him, and he moaned against my lips.
My good hand slid over his arm and across his chest, touching anything and everything I could reach. His skin was hot and slick beneath my hands, his muscles shifting with each movement. I couldn’t get enough of the feel of him.
Murphy gave my ass one final squeeze, then lifted me in both hands. I hugged him with my legs, throwing my head back as his mouth found my nipple. Shampoo suds slid down my arm. Warm, clear water ran over and between my breasts. Murphy lapped at it, licking a trail from one crest to the other.
His teeth scraped my nipple and I gasped, writhing against him, lost in blissful friction. My eyes closed as water poured over my face and down my neck. I felt each individual drop roll down my skin, triggering a series of carnal reactions—explosions, really—beneath the surface. My skin was hyper-sensitive, as if each point on my body was connected to a point on the inside. Oneparticularpoint, in fact.
Murphy had done something to me. He’d flipped a switch somewhere in my brain, or maybe much lower down. My body wasalivewith sensation. Every feeling was magnified, every point of contact throbbing with anticipation. Each touch hummed its way through my body like a dart searching for the bull’s-eye. And they never missed.
Neither did Murphy.
He swung us to one side, and the shower rained on my good arm. My back hit the cold tile wall, and the temperature change shocked me. His mouth left my nipple, and I slid lower on the wall and along his torso. His lips crushed against mine almost desperately. Teeth nibbled my bottom lip. His tongue stroked into my mouth, and my good arm went around his neck, my fingers curling in his hair. His scent curled through me with each breath; he smelled like the air at sea, salty and fresh, and clean. And irresistibly masculine.
Murphy tucked my right arm carefully between our bodies, so I wouldn’t have to move it. His finger traced my skin from shoulder to elbow, leaving a hot, wet trail in its wake. I shuddered. Every place he touched me felt wonderful. I couldn’t get enough of him.
Desperate for more, I let go of his hair and grabbed his hand. I pressed it to my breast and squeezed. Lifted. Showed him what I wanted.
He groaned, and pressed me harder against the wall. He throbbed against my stomach. His thumb rubbed my nipple. His tongue trailed up my neck.
“Murphy—”
“Cale,” he corrected, whispering his name against my jaw, his chin stubble scraping my cheek. “If you’re going to talk while we do this, use my first name.”
“Cale.” I tried his name out, and it seemed to fit my tongue like his body fit against mine. As if it had always belonged there.
