“I’m just… up in my head,” I tell him. I need time to figure out how to handle this.

Calder searches my eyes. This is another part of the relationship journey: learning when to trust the other partner.

Finally he nods and draws me close again.

“I’m here. If you need me,” he says. “We’re a team now.”

I want to explain that I’m worried about him, not myself, but I know that won’t help anything. For now, I’ll stay out of Lou’s business, but I swear, if she hurts him, I’ll wring her neck with my bare hands.

“I know,” I tell him earnestly before shifting into a lighter tone. “But if we’re a team, then how do you explain the fact that you just lost a challenge and I won?”

It’s a weak segue as far as they go, but it seems to satisfy Calder for now. He gives me a final questioning look, but seeing that I’m not about to spill any secrets, he grins and gives me a playful smack on the ass. Just like that, the lightness is back between us, and the playfulness returns to his eyes. I’m all too eager to forget what I heard and return to our game, and I laugh and wiggle my butt against his hand.

“I get a hint,” I remind him. I haven’t forgotten that part, and I mean to win my prize once and for all.

“Ask away.”

My fingers drift up his spine. “Is the gift something for us? I mean, I know it’s technically for me, but will you enjoy it as well?”

He chuckles. “In a sense, yes.”

“Like lingerie?” Maybe it was that simple all along.

His eyes flash with smug humor. “Is that a guess?”

Oh. Not lingerie then.

“No. Just trying to wheedle an extra hint out of you.”

“I don’t know. That sounded very much like a guess.” He squeezes my ass. “And remember the penalty for wrong guesses.”

I look down at his hardening arousal, which seems more than ready to exact that punishment. In spite of my competitiveness, I’m more than willing to face the consequences of my loss.

“What would you like me to do?” I ask, running my hand down his solid length. I can think of all manner of scandalous things we could do here in the shower.

But Calder reaches down and grabs the shampoo. “I want you to wash my hair.”

I frown. “Is that all?”

He presses the bottle into my hand. “Wash my hair. You’re not allowed to touch me anywhere else.”

It’s a strange request, but I obey. Not that I don’t eye him suspiciously as I squirt some shampoo on my hand. I know better than to believe he doesn’t have something else planned.

I rub the shampoo between my hands, working up a lather before I smooth it into his hair. He keeps his eyes on me the entire time, and the familiar prickle of awareness creeps up the back of my neck.

“Stop staring at me like that,” I tease. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I like that I make you nervous.”

I laugh and try to give him a little punch on the shoulder, but he catches me by the wrist.

“Touch only my hair,” he reminds me. He’s not laughing anymore, but he’s not angry, either. Instead, he looks at me with an intensity that turns my insides to complete mush. He looks at me as though he’s never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life. As if he’s afraid that any moment I might slip away from him, and that he must memorize every line of my face before I disappear.

I obey him. As much as I chafe at losing, I really don’t mind this. There’s something very intimate, very sensual about helping him wash. I could spend hours slipping my hands through his hair, hours toying with and twisting the strands, just reveling in how silky they feel between my fingers. His scalp is warm beneath the water, but it’s nothing to the warmth burning my cheeks.

And I never look away from his gaze. His eyes are dark, half closed, but there’s a brightness that warms me from the inside out.

I keep expecting him to try something naughty—to tease my nipples, or to slide a hand between my legs—but he doesn’t take advantage of the fact that I can’t return his touch. Instead, his hands linger on my waist, warm and solid and steady.

This isn’t about sex. Not this time.

Neither of us speaks. I finish washing his hair, and then he picks up the shampoo and squeezes some into his own hand. I close my eyes as his hands weave through my wet hair. His fingers move in slow circles, round and round like the best kind of massage. Between his gentle touch and the warm lick of the water, I could fall asleep right here.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

It’s not an order, but an entreaty. I open my eyes and hold his gaze as he washes my hair. This is nothing like our earlier staring match. I don’t find myself fighting the urge to laugh or blink or look away. I want to lose myself in those dark eyes of his, drown in his soul. I can’t imagine my life without Calder. Once, I thought my time with him was like a dream—a wild, passionate fantasy from which I’d eventually wake up. Now, the opposite feels true: everything I knew before Calder feels like a dream, and this, only this, is authentic and real. I swear, sometimes I believe that all of my senses have been heightened—all of my emotions magnified—since I met him. It’s silly, and it’s irrational, but no reality I’ve ever known can match the intensity of the one I experience when Calder is by my side.

And if I ever dream again, I know it could never live up to this.

CHAPTER SIX

We never finish our game. After our shower, we tumble right back into the bedroom, and though Calder seems eager for the next challenge, I don’t miss the fatigue in his eyes. We spent the whole day hauling our things up three flights of stairs and the better part of the night hungrily devouring each other. Any normal person would have collapsed long ago. And that’s not even considering the emotional strain of the day.

I suggest we take a break and lie down for a little while. Calder seems reluctant at first, but as soon as the protest leaves his lips, his mouth widens in a yawn.

“You know,” I say, “if you’re tired, we can end the game and you can just give me the present.”

His lips curl into a secretive smile. “It’s too important for that. But you’re right. We should rest for a while.”

“Just a little while,” I say.

“Just a little while,” he agrees.

We throw some sheets down on the mattress and curl up next to each other. We don’t speak. It’s enough to lie here in each other’s arms, to entangle ourselves and let our heartbeats slowly fall into time.




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