The bathroom is full of steam, and the mirror is already fogged up. Caleb has set a folded towel and washcloth on the closed toilet lid and my bottle of body wash on the edge of the tub.
“I’ll be in the other room,” he says, but he lingers in the doorway, scanning me from head to foot. “Yell if you feel faint. I can help you…”
“I got it,” I ignore the heat creeping up my neck. I close the door behind him and then peel myself out of my sweaty pajamas.
I carefully step in, my body relaxing the minute I sink down. The bath is the perfect temperature—warm but not too hot, and it feels incredible.
For a few minutes, I just lie there, letting myself feel like a limp noodle. Then I wash my hair, shave my legs because why the hell not, and pretend for five seconds that I am a pampered trophy wife in a much nicer zip code.
But eventually, I can’t stand how wrinkly my fingers are, and I’m pretty sure Caleb isstillhere. So, I towel off, wriggle into fresh pajamas, and feel satisfied that I no longer smell like week-old fish.
When I open the door, Caleb is sitting on the couch, flipping through his phone. He doesn’t say anything at first, scanning my face with approval. “Your color’s back,” he says, smiling wide. “How do you feel?”
“Clean,” I laugh lightly, feeling the press of my nipples against my pajama top.
He steps closer, hands in his pockets. “You know, nobody’s going to revoke your independent-woman badge if you ask for help occasionally.” There’s a weird intensity to his gaze.
But maybe I’m just reading this wrong.
“Well…” I let out a sigh. “I can’t help myself sometimes.”
“Hmm…” He shrugs. “I know you’re tough, but it’s nice to have a little help.” His lips curl into a smirk. “C’mon, you can admit it.”
“Never will I ever admit it,” I shoot back, and that makes him laugh.
The sound is so warm that I don’t even realize I’ve taken another step toward him, my hand resting on his forearm.
“Maddy…” His voice trails off, growing husky.
“Sorry,” I breathe out, instantly feeling a rush of embarrassment. But before I can step away, his hands are on my hips.
“Do you think you’re still contagious?” he asks, voice a little rough.
“Probably not,” I lie, and he grins again, like he knows I’m full of shit. “You definitely don’t want to get too close.”
“But I really want to kiss you,” he murmurs. His lips land on my temple. Then my cheekbone. Then the hollow just below my ear, where the skin is so sensitive it sends sparks through my whole body.
Holy shit. What is happening right now?
He is deliberately not kissing my mouth, and I want to ask if he’s being a gentleman or if he just doesn’t want to risk the plague. But I clamp my mouth shut. I donotwant this moment to end.
And clearly, he doesn’t either.
Caleb shifts me, so I’m pressed against the wall, the tile cool against my spine. His hands move up, and I shiver, not from cold, but from the way his fingertips skate along the slope of my waist.
“Are you okay with this?” His breath is hot on the skin of my neck.
I nod, unable to summon actual words, my body arching to be closer to his. My fingers reach for him, twisting up in his shirt.
He kisses his way to my collarbone, stopping to trace the line of it with his tongue in a way that makes my knees weak.
I gasp. “Caleb.”
He pauses, putting a little distance between us. “Want to stop?” He leans back, catching my gaze.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, my body aching for his.
He chuckles and then closes the distance between us again.
