Page 42 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“It’s not. But I’m glad I can do something to make your day a little bit better.”
They exchanged a warm smile. As he rested a hand on the balustrade, her eyes traced the line of his bent wrist and tensed forearm. He had really nice arms, not bulky but fit and strong, with a light dusting of freckles that suited his complexion. He was probably a great hugger. Marlowe missed hugs, maybe even more than she missed sex. She considered asking for a hug but it felt too intimate for their short acquaintance. Even if she was about to get naked, use his shower, put on his clothes, and slip into his bed.
Yeah. That. All of that.
She didn’t ask for a hug. He didn’t offer. Instead, he did precisely what he’d said he was going to do and left her alone to make herself comfortable. Despite a tiny flicker of disappointment,Marlowe was grateful. No ulterior motives. No who’s-thinking-what games. No additional confusion. Just a kind gesture. One she really appreciated.
She started a load of laundry, grateful she didn’t have to keep an eye on it like she did at the Laundromat. The guest suite was across the hall, a bedroom the size of her entire apartment and a bathroom decorated in creamy marble and spotless glass. Without hesitation, she stripped down and stepped into a shower with ten times the water pressure she was used to. Hours, days, months of stress seemed to wash away as she lingered in the rush of hot water, letting steam fill the room. She enjoyed generous amounts of luscious-smelling shampoo and conditioner, as well as handmade soap balls scented with lemongrass and something floral she couldn’t identify. She took her time. She savored every second. Or, almost every second. Until…
Until she realized she was checking the closed door for the tenth or twelfth time, not because she was worried Angus would burst in on her, but because she kind of wanted him to. Not in a creepy, invasive way, but slowly, carefully. The door would inch ajar. His voice would find her, deep, low, and breaking ever so slightly with nerves.
Marlowe,he’d say, her name like velvet on his tongue.Do you want company?
Yes,she’d say.I’ve been hoping you’d ask.
I’ve been hoping you were hoping,he’d volley back.
He’d step into the bathroom, drawing his T-shirt over his head, slowly coming into focus as he neared the glass shower stall through the steam. He’d take her in with his eyes. She’d do the same, following his example, finding no shame in looking, or in appreciating what she saw. He was so damned beautiful, with his downturnednose and his angular bone structure and a faint trail of freckles that crossed his cheeks and nose like footprints left behind by a dancing fairy. God, and his body. All that strength she wanted to not care about but found herself drawn to. She was so tired of trying to be strong on her own. Of holding herself up. Of hiding her weaknesses. Was it so wrong to want—for the briefest moment—to rely on someone else’s strength? And to enjoy the way the light painted his contours as though it was as drawn to him as she was?
I want you,she’d say.
You have no idea,he’d return.
He’d already be hard as he stepped into the shower, a display of desire that matched the gentle throbbing between her thighs, the undeniable craving that pulsed through her, opened her, urged her to part for him. Again she and Angus would only look at each other, asking silent questions with their eyes, answering each one with little more than a ragged breath. The spray from the shower would darken his hair and run down his sculpted chest and abs. She’d trace a single drop on its journey, down, down, down, until it met a tangle of damp hair. He’d reach forward and cup her breast, gently. Then he’d circle her nipple with the side of his thumb, watching it harden the way he watched everything else, as though her body fascinated him, as though he needed to know.
His kisses would be hungry but sure. His hands would find every spot that made her writhe and buck against him. He’d spin her around and take her from behind, his mouth hot against her neck, his chest hard against her back. He’d find a rhythm that jolted her entire body, slipping deeper into her as his groin hit her ass and he reached around to stroke her, circling, teasing, drawing her toward climax. Thrusting faster. Harder. Palms pressing against steamed-up glass. Water rushing down. Teeth tugging at her ear. Her namegasped out, maybe. His touch so certain, so aware of her response, finding the perfect spot, the perfect pressure, the perfect—
Yes,she thought.There. Yes. Fuck. Yes.
She’d arch against him, her head thrown back as a shudder overtook her and—
The shampoo and conditioner toppled from their shelf. Marlowe tripped on one of the bottles and fell flat on her ass, letting out a groan so unsexy she might as well have been a giant sow rolling onto its side. Spilled shampoo spiraled into the drain while splattered conditioner ran down the wall, as though the ghost of Jackson Pollock was having his way with the shower stall. As a final touch, a soap ball rolled off the shelf and hit Marlowe’s forehead. She flinched, but otherwise sat dead still for what must’ve been a full minute, praying Angus hadn’t heard her fall.
Thankfully, he didn’t knock and ask if she was okay. She wasn’t sure how she’d answer. Sure, her backside was only mildly bruised. She’d recover quickly enough, but goddammit! She’djuststarted getting along with Angus and she was already masturbating about him??? She was hardly okay.
Blaming her steamy fantasies on fatigue, she climbed into bed without further incident. She didn’t even bother waiting up so she could switch her first load of laundry into the dryer. Clean clothes no longer seemed that essential, not with such a comfortable bed to snuggle into.
Angus’s sheets were crisp and cool. His clothes were cozy and smelled of nondescript detergent. His pillow cradled her head, so soft and plush, all other thoughts vanished. Sleep beckoned. She willingly obeyed, certain she could face Angus in the morning with no sign whatsoever that her thoughts had strayed…
Chapter Eighteen
Marlowe turned at the top of the stairs, already blushing.
“That you?” Angus called from the living room. “You up?”
“Yeah. Um. Forgot. Thing. Dryer. Second. Clothes. Check.” She scurried back down the stairs and into the laundry room, where her clothes were spinning away, her first load in the dryer and her second in the washer, as they should be since that was precisely where they were ten seconds ago. She was still wearing Angus’s T-shirt and boxers, lacking any other clean clothes until the dryer cycle finished. She splashed cold water on her face and gave herself yet another pep talk. Angus had no way of knowing about her shower fantasy, or any other steamy thoughts she’d entertained over the years. He’d offered her refuge and she’d accepted. Simple. Straightforward. No big deal.
She found him seated on a gray velveteen sofa that was reminiscent of mid-century modern styles but with enough padding to sink into. His sock-clad feet were kicked up on a wood-block coffee table that was pieced together from at least a dozen different woods, giving it an Escher-like appearance. It looked handcraftedand probably cost more than an entire year of Marlowe’s rent. Its value didn’t seem to faze Angus as he flipped through a paperback while a mug steamed on a side table near his shoulder.
“You sleep okay?” he asked as he lowered the book.
“Great. Yeah. Obviously.” She nodded at the floor-to-ceiling windows that opened out to sun-dappled hills and the ocean beyond. It was a little after 10:30A.M., meaning she’d slept for almost eleven hours. “Let me guess, you already ran ten miles.”
“Fifteen, but who’s counting?”
Marlowe rolled her eyes. “My mom would love you.”
Angus’s cheeks reddened as he scratched at the back of his neck.
