Page 113 of Puck Prince

“Yeah.”

I expect more questions. Or maybe a snide comment. Something Owen-esque.

But his eyes just search mine before softening. “Yeah. You can stay with me.”

He opens the door to let me in. I stand in the foyer and breathe as he closes it behind us, locks the deadbolt, and fastens the chain. It smells good in here.

It smells like Owen.

He tosses his keys on the counter and goes down the hall.

I take slow steps deeper into his space. I’ve only been here a few times before, but I feel strangely at home. Weirdly comfortable. A moment later, he reappears with a pillow and two blankets.

“My couch is no Cali King, but I’ve passed out on it enough times to give it a three-star review.”

“So better than Super 8, but a far cry from Hilton?”

He makes the leather sofa into a bed. “More like a Holiday Inn. I have nice sheets and the pillow is cooling.”

“Fancy Pants Sharpe.” It makes him smile, and I’m glad about it. I’m still pretty embarrassed, so anything that deflects from my meltdown is good news in my book. “Sorry. For all of this. But also, thank you. For all of it.”

“Sure. I’m thinking a hot shower might feel good.”

I actually groan at the thought. “That sounds lovely, thank you.”

His mouth crawls into a grin. “I meant… for me.”

I blush, practically face-palming myself.Obviously, you idiot.

“ … but if you want to join me…”

I look at him in the dim light coming in from the blinds. His eyes are burning mischievously. There’s a beat of unanswered heat between us—because how do you respond to that?—and then he turns and makes his way down the hall.

“Door is open. Invitation is, too.”

I hear the faucet, the rainfall showerhead, and the unzipping of pants.

He can’t be serious. There’s no way he’s serious.

I peek around the corner. Sure enough, the door is cracked halfway open. Enough that I can see the reflection of him tugging his jersey up over his head, not to mention his pants hitting the floor.

The mirror is fogging quickly. Too quickly.

I swallow hard.

I can’t. I shouldn’t. I…

… want to.

A moment later, my feet are carrying me down the hall.

My hand is pressing the door open farther. The skin-colored silhouette of him behind the steamy shower glass, flexing as he lifts his arms up and runs his hands through his hair, is enough to make my shorts wet.

I undress completely, my clothes falling into a pile next to his, and quietly slide the door open. I slip in behind him. He turns around, and I see him in all his glory—toned quads and biceps, rippling abs, and hard… well, everything.

His eyes are still closed as water streams down his face, but I can’t help myself. I press all of me against all of him, kissing him urgently.

I need this. To smell him, feel him. I need to be reassured by how strong and solid he is.

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