Page 34 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

The cameras keep clicking away, documenting our big, fat lie. But when Lola’s eyes lock onto mine, a silent question burning in them, I know she’s the only audience that matters.

She’s waiting for me to spill the beans. For real. And right now, I’m fresh out of answers.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LOLA

We didn’t go anywhereto celebrate.

Instead, we came home.

And then everything went to shit.

First, I lost my ChapStick—thank goodness I always have thirteen backups. Second, I ran out of toilet paper in “my” bathroom, and third, when I went to get some from Cole’s bathroom, I didn’t realize he was in the shower.

And then I promptly forgot how to breathe.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, my voice barely audible. I’m frozen as I admire Cole in all his naked glory. You couldn’t get me to take my eyes off him.

The water cascades down his sculpted back, a roadmap of muscles glistening under the spray. His hair, usually perfectly styled, is plastered to his forehead, and for a moment, he looks younger, almost vulnerable. It’s like something out of a dream, a fantasy playing out on a screen of steam and frosted glass. Except this is real. And I am very, very screwed.

Because then, he turns. And for a heartbeat, our eyes meet through the steam, his gaze a mixture of surprise and something darker and hotter, which sends a shiver down my spine. I’m likea deer caught in the headlights, only I’m caught in his stare, with absolutely nowhere to hide.

His gaze doesn’t waver. It holds mine, a silent question passing between us through the haze of steam. And then, slowly, deliberately, his hand moves, sliding down his torso, water sliding over the hard muscles of his abdomen before coming to rest just below the line of his hip. His fingers flex, a slow, languid movement, and I watch, mesmerized, as they disappear beneath the spray, his touch a possessive brand on his own skin.

My breath hitches in my throat, a strangled sound I can barely hear over the pounding of my heart. The world narrows, focusing down to the point where his hand disappears behind the veil of water, the movement impossibly intimate, erotic.

But he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t stop. And the heat in his eyes tells me everything I need to know: He doesn’t want me to either.

His fingers tighten, and a low groan escapes his lips, reverberating through the room as he strokes himself slowly and steadily. It might be my new favorite sound. One that makes my toes curl against the cold tile floor.

I can’t breathe. I can’t look away. I’m caught in his orbit, a helpless satellite drawn to his heat and intensity. My body thrums in response, a low ache building between my legs, a mirror to his own desire. The frosted glass separates us, a thin barrier between reality and fantasy, yet I feel utterly exposed, stripped bare by the intensity of his gaze and the raw hunger in his touch.

He leans his head back against the shower wall, his pale throat a contrast against his tanned skin, and picks up the pace. His hand moves faster now, more urgent, his strokes rougher, and the sounds he makes, dark and needy, send a shockwave of desire straight to my core.

I press a hand against my mouth, stifling a moan that wants to slip out. He’s so close. I can see it in the way his chest heaves, in the clench of his jaw, and in the frantic rhythm of his hand.

And then, with a curse and a groan that seems to shake the very foundation of the house, he comes, his head thrown back, his body arched against the wall as the water sluices over him, washing away the evidence of his release. But even the steam can’t hide the raw pleasure etched on his face, the lingering heat in his gaze as he finally,finally, meets my eyes again.

I run.

Like a freaking coward, I haul ass out of the bathroom like my butt is on fire. My feet barely touch the plush carpet as I sprint down the hallway, a silent scream trapped in my throat. I slam my bedroom door shut with a bang that echoes through the cavernous house, the sound a jarring counterpoint to the erratic thump-thump-thump of my heart.

I lean back against the door, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

What. The. Hell. Was. That?

My hand flies to my mouth, as if to contain the memory of what I just witnessed. The heat in his eyes. The way his hand moved, strong and sure and so damn… possessive. The sounds he made. Sounds that are most definitely burned into my brain, a soundtrack of pleasure I could still feel vibrating through my bones.

And the look on his face. Goodness, the look on his face when he finally met my gaze. It was like he was offering me a glimpse into the darkest, most secret part of himself. An invitation and a challenge all wrapped up in one. And I ran.

I slide down the door, landing on the floor with a soft thump, and bury my face in my hands. The erotic show I just witnessed plays on repeat behind my eyelids.

What are we doing?

This weird, twisted dance we’ve been doing since I moved in. The stolen glances, the charged silences, the way the air seems to crackle whenever we are in the same room together.

It is wrong. Reckless. Completely insane.

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