“Maybe it’s just an unorthodox friendship we have,” I say.
He hesitates.
I watch the muscle in his jaw twitch. “Just friends, huh?”
I nod slowly, even though there’s nothing remotelyfriendlyabout the way my skin hums with awareness. “Just…environmentalists conserving water.”
His gaze drops down my body, then back to my eyes. He lets out a strangled sound that might be a laugh, might be a growl.
“Fine. No funny business.”
He steps forward. The curtain slides shut behind him, sealing us into the heat.
I turn the water back on, and it rains down between us. Warm. Almost too warm.
We stand there for a second. Frozen. And then I reach for the body wash.
“Turn around,” I say, more breathless than I mean to sound.
He obeys.
I start with his back. Broad and sun-kissed, muscles shifting under my fingers as I lather him slowly. My palms glide over his shoulders, down his arms, and across the curve of his lower back.
His breath catches when I drag the soap lower, over the backs of his thighs.
He turns, and now it’s his front. His chest. God, his chest—carved muscle, taut and tan and already beading with droplets.I rub the soap into him gently, taking my time. His abs flex beneath my touch.
“Cassie…” he warns, voice hoarse.
But I keep going, down his stomach and down the trail of hair until I reach him.
He’s hard.
Sohard.
I try not to react—but I wrap my soapy fingers around him anyway. Gently. Slowly. Professionally, I tell myself. Dear God, what’s gotten into me?
My heart hammers in my chest like a bass drum.
As if there’s anything professional orfriendlyabout this.
His head falls back. He makes a low, guttural sound that rattles my bones.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You call this friendship?”
“It’s hygiene,” I reply, as evenly as I can. “Just helping out a roommate in need.”
He watches me with fire in his eyes, then takes my hand…and removes it, to my surprise.
“No. If we ever go down this road again…you’re gonna beg for it.”
I feel like my chest collapses inward when he says that.
Then—without another word—he takes the loofah from my hands.
“Your turn.”
His hands are bigger than mine. And rougher, too.
