Well then.
I set the clean clothes on the counter and rushed to turn the faucet all the way to hot. I peeled off my drenched clothes and left them in a wet heap on the floor as steam began to fill the bathroom.
I stepped into the heated spray, and a moan whimpered free at the feel of the water hitting my skin.
At the chills that raced from the contrast of hot and cold.
I blew out a relieved sigh.
Suddenly…thankful.
So extremely thankful.
I always expected the worst in people, and in the luxury of this shower, I couldn’t help the thought that this guy might actually be nice.
Genuine and good.
I steeled myself against it.
Trusting only made you vulnerable. Put you in a position where you could be hurt.
And I didn’t have the time or space for that.
Besides, I was pretty sure it didn’t take much for that boy outside this room to have girls falling at his feet, and I was even more certain my heart wasn’t up for a fling or even a one-night stand.
But damn, would an orgasm I didn’t give myself feel nice.
Visions flash-fired at that.
Those big, big hands and that flirty mouth and that massive body.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I tried not to imagine him in the next room over, naked and beneath the heated spray.
Nope. Nope. Nope. Do not go there, Salem.
Get clean, get dry, get out.
That was my goal tonight.
But still, I stayed under that relaxing cascade for probably a little too long and let my mind drift a little too far.
But could you blame a girl?
This place was like a fantasy.
The man a fantasy, too.
A wicked fantasy where it’d be so easy to get lost.
Finally, I shut off the shower. I stepped out onto the plush white mat, and I grabbed the fluffy towel. It completely engulfed me when I wrapped it around my body, and there was nothing I could do but take one end and push it to my face and inhale the scent—the same scent that had taken me over when I’d slipped onto his bike and found my nose at the back of his neck.
Citrus and cinnamon and spice.
It smelled like he’d washed his clothes in a late fall night.
I inhaled a little too deeply, committing it to memory, though I doubted much that I’d forget, anyway.
Okay creeper, stop fantasizing about a man who is just trying to be nice.
The internal pep talk worked for all of five seconds, because the moment I pulled his giant shirt over my head, I was sucked right back down into that delusion.
It was warm and scented and god, I felt like I was wrapped by the man. Then I was giggling when I pulled on the giant pair of boxers and looked in the mirror.
I looked ridiculous.
Swamped in fabric that was ten times too big.
Fighting the smile, I rolled the boxers down to my hips, praying they wouldn’t slip off, then I wrapped the towel around my hair, swooped up my wet pile of clothes, and moved back out to the bedroom. The room was only illuminated by the light from the bathroom, though it was clear the two rooms matched.
Nothing but dark, masculine luxury.
A king-sized bed with lavish linens.
I shook my head and forced myself to move, though I slowed in caution when I unlocked the door and peeked out. When I was hit with silence, I tiptoed out into the main space.
The open loft was dark save for the lights under the kitchen cabinets, but what my attention locked on were some paintings hanging on the far wall of the living area that were cast in muted spotlights.
I hadn’t noticed them when I’d first come in, but in the quiet, they seemed like they were the only thing I could see. My feet involuntarily moved that direction.
The images a lure that hooked my heart and mind.
They ran on four big canvases, floor to soaring ceiling. Two were situated on either side of the massive TV sitting on a stand along the wall. The paintings were raw and candid, and my chest clenched around my thudding heart as I stared and tried to make sense of what they represented. I got the unsettled sense I was peering directly into the artist’s soul, right to where his demons thrashed and thrived.
Depictions of ghosts that screamed and howled. Demons that climbed from fiery flames to crawl and ravage the Earth. Vague, obscured faces were woven in, as if they were hidden in the scene, prisoners that didn’t belong but were stuck there, anyway.
Others were stark, haunting beauty. Stars and eternity and lost hope.
Each was breathtakingly tragic.
Earth-shatteringly inspired.
I leaned closer to them.
Enthralled.
Enraptured.
Like I had become a piece of the torment written in the bold strokes of paint.
In the agony weaved in the canvas.
The air thickened and locked in my lungs, and the fine hairs prickled at the nape of my neck.