Chapter 16: Hot Water

On Thursday night he took me home with him, and neither of us pretended it was about the Ridgeline Kit.

His loft smelled like cedar soap and the pasta sauce he had left simmering.

He turned the burner off and looked at me across the kitchen island.

"It's my day," he said.

"I'm aware."

"You've had a bad morning and a worse afternoon. Kip's printout is still in your bag, and you've read it four times."

"Five."

"Come here."

He led me by the hand across the loft to the bathroom.

It had a walk-in shower, big enough for two, with white tile floor to ceiling and a rain head.

He turned the water on and tested it with his wrist.

Then he stood behind me and undid the buttons of my cardigan one by one, from the bottom up, taking his time.

He folded it over the edge of the sink.

He took off my glasses and set them beside it.

Everything went soft and blurred, except him.

He undressed me slowly, and himself faster, and led me under the water.

It fell hot over my shoulders, and the tension of the whole day finally drained out of me.

His hands were slick with soap.

He washed my back in long strokes, and my arms, and the backs of my knees.

Not to tease.

He washed me as if I were something he had been given to look after.

"Drake."

"Hush."

"I want to touch you."

"It's my day."

"You said I could kneel when I wanted."

He went quiet.

"I did say that," he admitted.

I turned around and slid down the wet tile to my knees.

The water drummed on my back.

He was already hard, thick and dark and heavy, and I took him in my hand and looked up at him through the spray.

His hand came down to rest on the back of my head, and it shook.

I took him into my mouth.

He made a low broken sound and his head fell back against the tile.

I took him deep, and hollowed my cheeks, and worked my fist at the base where my mouth couldn't reach.

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