Page 95 of Even Exchange

My heart catches in my throat, and I’m unable to conjure up a single reply as my eyes trail his wet, soaped-up body hungrily. He rinses off and has me switch so I’m back under the warm water.

“Wait in here,” he instructs, getting out and drying off. He reaches in and turns off the water, then opens the curtain and holds a towel open for me.

“I can do this myself,” I tease, secretly enjoying the princess treatment.

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking. “But I want to.”

“Okay.” I grin, stepping out of the shower and onto the towel he placed on the ground, allowing him to wrap the other around my body.

He positions me away from him in front of the mirror, and I wipe it clean so I can see him. He pulls a brush out of the drawer and gently tugs all the knots out of my hair.

“You’re spoiling me,” I say.

“You wanted to practice having good sex,” Noah says, the corner of his mouth quirking. “That means aftercare is required in the lesson plan.”

“Will it be on the final exam, Professor?”

His eyes find mine in the mirror, and he sets the brush on the counter with a tap. “If you keep calling me that, class will runverylate tonight, Ms. Benson.” Noah yanks off my towel, and I squeal as he scoops me up cradle style, walking us back into the dimly lit room.

He tosses me onto the bed, his eyes drinking me in as he climbs after me. He lies beside me, and I hook my leg over him, our naked bodies entangling like those little Lego pieces he loves so much.

He tugs the covers over us and runs his hand along my back. Snuggling into him, I allow my body tofullyrelax for the first time in months.

It’s perfect.

Too perfect.

“Noah?”

“Yeah?”

“When should we remember this isn’t real?” His touch pauses, fingertips tapping on my skin.

“When the sun comes up?” he suggests.

“When the sun comes up,” I agree.

And his hands are back in my hair, his lips on my skin.

* * *

“Stop!”

My eyes pop open, darkness surrounding me.

“Don’t do this,” Noah pleads quietly, and I jump, flicking on the bedside lamp.

Turning back to the bed, I find him, eyes squeezed shut, clutching the comforter.

“Noah,” I say, nudging him, but no response. His grip tightens on the blanket, his breathing heavy.

Is he having a nightmare?

“Noah,” I say louder, and his head moves slightly, eyelids fluttering.

What do I do?

Throw water on him?

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