“Turn,” he said, and I complied instantly.
The man took his time, over my shoulders and down my arms, along the curve of my waist, and up over my breasts. But he didn’t make any move to instigate anything else. He kissed my shoulder as he made sure all the bubbles were clean from my body, pushing the hair back off my forehead so he could skim his lips over my cheekbones, my forehead, and the tip of my nose.
I wanted to tell him I was falling in love with him. That it was so much bigger, scarier, than the first time all those years ago.
Because now I knew what I’d be missing.
When I returned the favor and soaped him, he watched through heavy-lidded eyes as I trailed my hands over his chest and arms and stomach, then slid that hand down between his legs.
“You’re very thorough,” he murmured, with heavy panting breaths as I moved my hand. His fingers dug into my hips.
“Don’t want to miss a spot.” I nipped at his chin.
Somehow, I kept my tone light, even though something sad and desperate threatened to crack open inside my chest. It would be so messy, so complicated if I let it spill out now.
I was leaving soon. And with the start of his season looming over us like a giant six-month shadow, complications were the very last thing either of us needed.
I pushed up on my tiptoes and kissed him, relishing the hot, wet press of his body against mine as he turned us toward the tile bench at the back of the shower. If Emmett felt the edge of desperation in my kiss, he didn’t show it.
Why couldn’t this just be easy?
I couldn’t handle being under his scrutiny like this while some unnamed monster of a feeling prowled under the surface of my skin. But I wanted him.
I’d never not want him, no matter how much I couldn’t allow myself to have him. And if he saw that on my face, we’d have to have a bigger conversation than I was ready for. Even if he didn’t know, Emmett wasn’t ready for it either.
So I turned in his arms, arching my back against his chest while his hands coasted along my front and sides. He sucked at my neck and told me I was beautiful, that he wanted me, that he missed me while we were apart.
I settled my hands against the tile and glanced at him over my shoulder while I braced a knee on the tile bench.
He slid his hands over my hips, up my back, and down again. “Perfect,” he murmured. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
I wasn’t, though. I laid my head against one of my arms, sighing long and slow when he steadied my hips and pushed into me.
I was greedy for taking this time with him. It was the most self-indulgent thing I’d ever done.
I was stupid for thinking—again—that I could handle it.
And I had a feeling that I’d break my own heart again before the weekend was over.
The tile room echoed with the sounds of our bodies, the way he grunted my name, the soft whimpering that he pulled from me with the drive of his hips.
It wasn’t just sex. Maybe no one would believe me, given this pattern we’d created.
The sex was a symptom, something we could indulge in without all the other pieces of a normal relationship that we couldn’t.
When Emmett curled his big body around my back, pulling me tight against his chest. With one more snapping push of his body, my mouth opened on a silent sob, my chest split open, warm liquid pleasure filling me until I slumped back because my legs couldn’t hold my weight.
He followed, his hands locked on my skin, his mouth against my shoulder with a relieved groan.
While we caught our breath, Emmett turned off the water and wrapped me in a fluffy white towel. I smiled, watching him indulgently while he dried himself off.