The Billionaire's Match Is Three Percent novel · Chapter 15 of 24

Chapter 15: The Clawfoot Tub

At two in the morning neither of us could sleep, so I ran the bath.

My tub is a clawfoot, old and chipped, under a window painted shut.

It holds one tall man if he bends his knees, and a second small person if she sits on top of him.

I lit the candle stub from the junk drawer and turned off the overhead.

Winston stood in the doorway in his gray t-shirt, watching the steam rise.

"It's small," he said.

"It's perfect. Take your clothes off."

"All of them?"

"Do I have to say it twice?"

"No."

He peeled off the shirt, and the jeans, and stood bare in the yellow light.

The scar under his ribs looked silver.

I took off my glasses, set them on the toilet lid, and pulled my own shirt over my head.

He looked at me, as though I were the first lit window on a dark street.

"In," I said.

He stepped over the rim and lowered himself into the water.

He sat with his back against the curved end and his knees up, and the hot water came to his ribs.

He let out a long breath.

I stepped in after him.

I sat between his legs with my back against his chest, and the water rose and slopped over the edge.

"You're flooding my floor," Winston said into my hair.

"It's my floor."

"I'll fix it."

"You won't. Shut up and touch me."

His arms came around me, wet and slow.

He took the bar of soap off the rim and worked it between his palms until it foamed.

Then he washed me.

He started at my shoulders, with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle at the base of my neck.

He did my arms, one at a time, wrist to shoulder.

He slid his soapy palms down over my collarbone and over my breasts, and stopped.

I felt his thumbs circle my nipples, lightly, and my back arched against him.

"Tell me what to do," he said, low, against my ear.

"Slowly."

"That I can do."

"Harder, a little."

His fingers closed, and a bright line of heat ran from my chest straight down between my legs.

I let my head fall back on his shoulder.

The water lapped at my belly.

"Daria," he said. "May I tell you something?"

"You don't have to ask."

"I'm afraid."

His voice was very quiet, and his hands kept moving, gently.

"Of Friday?"

"Of after Friday." His thumb stroked my ribs.

"I stand up and say it, and for a few minutes I'm brave.

Then I go back to being a man who leaves."

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