He snorts but pushes off the door and moves into the room. I hear him pull out a drawer in his dresser. His closet door slides open, then slides closed a moment later.
“I brought your stuff inside.” He says it softly, nothing like the booming yell from the night before.
The thrum inside me intensifies.
“Okay. Can I wash my clothes?”
He hums a soft affirmative, then his bathroom door closes, and I hear the water turn on.
I find my bag of laundry and a duffel bag I had under one of my seats filled with some random other things. My toiletries are on the foot of the guest bed, and Red the Dragon is sitting up by the pillows.
The thrum is a live wire.
I take my dirty laundry to the washer and dryer stack hidden away behind a closet door next to the bathroom across the hall, and dump in a load. I wait to start it while Bowen is showering and check the dryer instead.
I fold all the towels, smiling that same secret smile when I place the black and white striped towel on top.
I still hear the shower going in Bowen’s bathroom, so I grab the stack of towels and hum to myself when I hip check his bedroom door open the rest of the way.
I was just going to drop a few on his bed, okay?
I did not, however, expect to be blindsided by a full, absolutely and gloriously indecent view of Bowen in the goddamn nude.
All that skin? Tan and wet?
My brain short-circuits.
His skin is flushed, and he’s walking out of the steamy bathroom dripping wet. Andnaked.
The water is running in slow rivers down the contours of his stomach. It's downright the most sinful thing I have ever been graced with.
That’s before my eyes track lower, and I seeeverything…
“Oh…my God,” I squeak. Squeak! And then I slap one hand over my eyes and thrust out the other hand still holding the towels. “What are you doing? What if I was in here?”
“You are in here,” he deadpans but takes the towels. I swear I hear a small, minuscule thread of amusement in his voice, and I can’t help but peek between my fingers. My ring and pinky keep his modesty, of course.
There’s a beat of silence. Then he mutters, “You screamed.”
“I didnotscream.”
“Squealed.”
“You…you came at me dick first, Bowen! What was I supposed to do, bow in greeting?”
The laugh is short and rough, but it's there. It'sthere.“You saw my dick, didn’t you?”
“It was swinging at me—hard to miss,” I groan and snap my fingers closed when he looks at me.
“Get out, Kit.”
“Yep. Yeah, getting out.”
Kit.
Not kitten, but not Meyer.
The thrum isalive.
