Page 107 of Wicked Proposal
Actually, scratch that: they couldn’t afford this between them.
“It’s that way.”
“Huh?”
“The bathroom.” Despite the absence of a smile, Yulian somehow manages to seem more and more amused by the second. “Unless you were planning to wash up in the kitchen sink…?”
It’s almost as big as a bathtub, so why not?
“Right!” Somehow, the thought of showering at Yulian’s place doesn’t do much to banish the horny thoughts. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go do that. In the bathroom, I mean. Definitely not in the kitchen sink.”
“I can give you a boost, if that’s your thing.”
“Ha-ha,” I snark, trying to cover up how embarrassed I’m actually feeling.Please, God, let him miss how red my face is.“Very funny.”
The bathroom is as luxurious as the rest of the place. The shower alone is bigger than my kid’s bedroom. It pisses me off in aneat-the-richway, but it also fills me with envy.
And thoughts. Lots and lots of thoughts.
Because this shower is definitely big enough for two.
I spray myself with cold water to banish the images. Then, because I can’t resist the temptation, I test how hot it can get.
And oh. My.God.
It’s the best shower of my fucking life.
There’s a variety of soaps, all as expensive-looking as everything Yulian owns. I lather myself generously, figuring I might as well take advantage while I’m here.
When am I going to get another chance like this? In twenty-four hours, I’ll be back to my spluttering spray and lukewarm heater and Trader Joe’s two-for-one soaps.
I wonder if this is what Cinderella felt in her Fairy Godmother’s dress, spinning at that ball with the prince everybody else wanted. Granted, it’s just water pressure, but you get to appreciate these things as an adult.
Speaking of adult things…
My gaze falls to the mirror on the wall. It’s misted up, but when I swipe at it with my palm, I can see my body clear as day.
On my hips, the bruises Yulian left have completely faded.
I touch the spot they used to be, searching for that soft, pleasant ache I felt in the days after our night together. Whenever I pressed on them, I’d remember how Yulian’s fingers felt, dug so deep into my skin I knew they’d leave a mark.
In fact, they’re the first mark I’ve ever gotten that wasn’t unwanted. In all likelihood, Yulian didn’t even mean to give them to me.
Unlike my scars.
I trace my fingers along the other marks he left: a faded hickey on my neck, the memory of a bite mark on my breast. The sore ache between my legs, now melting back into need.
Stop, drop, and roll, girl.
Don’t do anything you’ll regret.
I rinse myself, turn off the shower, and climb out.
I pick up the only bathrobe and fold it over myself. It dwarfs me, way too big for my body. As I bury my face into the fabric to dry up, I catch notes of an oddly familiar scent. Pinewood, maybe, or amber.
Or…
Yulian’s cologne.
