Page 75 of The Chance

Chapter Forty-Eight

Mac

Sex doesn’t solve much.

But it sure as shit feels like a number forty-two to me right about now.

I’m still in disbelief. Still in shock. Still convinced I dreamt the whole fucking thing except I’m reminded by the ache in my ass every time I move.

And it isoh-so-good.

“Stop wriggling so much,” Jordan says absentmindedly, his focus lasered in on the towel in his grip.

“Can’t help it,” I mutter through a smirk and tap my forefingers along the edge of the vanity in front of me.

Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could. Because not only did we just get out of the shower—together—where Jordan spent time lathering my body, he’s now fixing my hair exactly as I do it without a single instruction from me.

Except … he’s deliberate. Meticulous.

Tender.

Taking a simple leave in conditioner routine and making it special.

While naked.

It’s got my chest swelling and my eyes set to heart mode.

Not to mention, I’ve been sporting a half-chub since I spunked all over my pillow.

“I haven’t done that since I was a teenager, you know,” I say out loud as his fingers work through my strands again, this time with the leave-in shit coating them.

“What’s that?”

He takes his time, running the product through, then scrunching the ends up tight to my scalp with the towel. It feels so damn good that I almost forget to answer.

“Coming on my pillow,” I respond, half-dazed and all the way relaxed.

His sight flicks up in the mirror, his head giving a slight disbelieving shake. “Can’t say that I ever have.”

The easy smirk I was toting drops. “You never used a pillow before?”

“Forwhat?”

I snort and sink back into the way his hands work over my head. Pretty sure he’s just doing the same thing all over again as an excuse to keep his hands on me.

“For sex,” I mutter, my hands falling to my lap, thumbs tapping a gentle rhythm on my knees.

“Ah, no.”

“Shame, Tyro.” My eyes fall shut. “I’ll have to show you later.”

His hands stutter in my hair. It’s so brief that I dismiss it, my energy too zapped to do anything except follow the way they recover.

“What color?” he murmurs sometime later, his hands reluctantly leaving my head.

I hum in thought, drifting in that space between where consciousness meets fantasy and answer “Orange.”

With gentle fingers, Jordan ties a bandana around my forehead, securing the ends at the back, just like I do.

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