Page 68 of Some Like It Hott

He’s leaving.

I can’t let myself forget it.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Me, too. I felt those things and wanted those things, too. But maybe we should—” I sigh, because there’s such a gulf between what I want and what I should want. It’s so hard to make myself be smarter this time around, but I don’t want to find myself in another coffee shop watching a guy I thought loved me gaze into another woman’s eyes like they hold the secrets of the universe. “Maybe we should be realistic about this situation. And, you know, call it quits before—before either of us gets hurt.”

His eyes move over my face, taking me in. Warm and slow and soft. “That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it?” he asks.

I know what he’s asking. He’s asking me to tell him it’s okay for us to be impulsive. To do this because it’s fun, just…because.

But I can’t. I can’t be his just-for-fun girl.

“Yeah,” I say. “And, um, I’d better—if you don’t mind, I need a shower.”

I turn away and wave my door key over the card pad.

The hotel dooron its hydraulic hinges takes an interminable amount of time to swing shut behind me. I stand for a moment, waiting for the telltale snick of the thick lock. I want to be left alone so I can shower and cry and lick my wounds.

Now I know the truth I’ve been hiding from myself.

I don’t want him to leave.

Worse, I want him not to want to leave.

The door still hasn’t shut. What’s taking it so long?

There’s a thud behind me.

I turn.

Preston’s there. Arm up over his head, palm flat on the door, bracing it open, lean muscles corded. His expression is stern, like the way he looked the first time I saw him. But he’s wearing a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, and his hair is disheveled from Nerf tag.

He stalks into the room, toward me. My heart picks up, skittish prey under the hunter’s gaze. Then he stops. His expression changes. Not the hunter’s. Something much more uncertain. Agonized, even.

“What?” I ask.

“For fuck’s sake, Natalie,” he says. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in here. And Ineverdon’t know what I’m doing. I just?—”

His voice is rough, catching on the words.

“—know I can’t stay away.”

And then the door clicks shut and he’s pressing me against it, kissing me even more breathless than I already am. His big body crowds mine, musky and delicious, the rigid bar of his cock pressing against my hip. A rush of desire floods my belly and core.

This. This is what I want.

Preston scoops me up and carries me into the bathroom. Setting me down, he points a finger at me. “Clothes off.” His tone is bossy, and I like it. So much.

We strip in parallel, and he reaches in and starts the hot water. He climbs in first and holds the curtain back for me. When I step in, he opens his arms and draws me close. His body and the water are hot, and I’m overwhelmed by the rush of sensation. Tears prickle my eyes as I cling to him, and he hugs me right back, tight, like he knows.

He picks up the soap, lathers up a washcloth. His hands on my body are sure and confident, and the perfect intersection of sensual pleasure and being cared for makes my tears prick even harder. I’m glad we’re in the shower and it’s not so obvious that being soaped clean is making me cry. His hands are gentle everywhere he touches, but I still moan when his washcloth-covered palm passes between my legs, and he laughs, a dark chuckle.

He watches as I shampoo my hair, his eyes traveling everywhere, touching my naked body as surely as his hands did. And his gaze makes goose bumps rise, makes my nipples pinch.

“My turn,” he says, low and gruff, so I shampoo his hair, and he groans at the scratch of my fingernails over his scalp, rubbing back against my fingertips like a cat asking for more, more, more. I take the washcloth and soap him, and his face goes soft and vulnerable at the pleasure of being touched and tended to. I want to make him this soft—and also hard and desperate.

The soap washes down the drain. He kisses me, water pouring over both our heads, everything wet and hot, his palm traveling down my body and making me moan again, his fingers slipping into my folds. He growls when he finds me slick there, his mouth greedy against mine as he plays a moment, trailing his fingers in a tease around my clit, then a quick dip into my core that makes my knees buckle. He cranks the water off, grabs a towel, wraps me in it. He ties one around his own waist, then scoops me up and carries me to the bed, where he deposits me. He tugs me to the edge of the mattress and kneels between my thighs.

“God,” he says. “You’re so pretty.” He extends a finger and parts my folds gently, stroking lightly over my clit. I lift my hips for more, and he laughs, that dark chuckle again, promising dirty goodness. He focuses his attention on my clit as my body turns liquid and I shift my hips restlessly.

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