Page 20 of November's Bad Boy: Kacen
The bathroom is neat and simple, as is the rest of her place. She turns on the shower, steam quickly filling the small space. While we wait for the water to warm, I carefully remove the condom, wrapping it in tissue before tossing it in the bin.
When we step under the spray together, it feels strangely intimate. Even more so than what we just did on her couch. She tilts her head back, letting the water run through her hair, and I'm transfixed by the curve of her throat, the way rivulets trace paths down her skin.
I step closer, drawn to her like gravity. My hands find her waist, and she opens her eyes, offering a small smile that hits me somewhere deep.
"Hi," she says, like we're meeting for the first time.
"Hi yourself," I reply, my voice rough around the edges.
She reaches for the shampoo, but I take it from her hands. "Let me?"
She nods, turning her back to me. I pour the shampoo into my palm—something floral and clean—and work it gently through her hair. My fingers massage her scalp, and she leans into my touch, a soft sound escaping her lips.
"That feels wonderful," she murmurs.
"Good," I say, taking my time, enjoying the simple intimacy of washing her hair.
When she's done rinsing, I take the conditioner and work it through her hair, my fingers trailing down her neck, across her shoulders. The intimacy of this moment hits me harder than anything we've done before. This isn't just about sex. This isn’t just passion. It’s about her, in a way that reaches past this moment and everything underneath it..
After we've both washed, I reluctantly turn off the water. The air feels cool against our wet skin as I reach for a towel from the rack. Instead of handing it to her, I wrap it around her shoulders, pulling her close.
"Let me," I murmur, and begin gently drying her skin.
She watches me with those eyes that see too much, standing perfectly still as I pat the towel along her arms, her stomach, down her legs. I kneel to dry her calves, her feet, taking my time with each inch of her. When I stand again, she takes the towel from my hands.
"My turn," she says, her voice soft in the steamy bathroom.
She dries me with the same care, her touch gentle but sure. There's nothing hurried about it, nothing demanding. Just her hands through the soft cotton, absorbing the water from my skin.
When she finishes, she drops the towel in the hamper and takes my hand, leading me out of the bathroom and down the hall. The floorboards creak beneath our bare feet, and I feel anticipation building in my chest with each step closer to her bedroom.
She pushes the door open, and I follow her inside. Her room is exactly what I would have expected. Simple, with clean lines, a bookshelf packed with paperbacks, and a small desk in the corner. The bed dominates the space, a queen with a navy-blue comforter that looks impossibly soft.
"Stay with me tonight," she says, not a question but not quite a demand either.
"I'd like that," I reply, my voice lower than I intended.
She pulls back the covers and slides in, her body still slightly damp from the shower. I follow her lead, slipping between the sheets. The mattress dips beneath our combined weight, and for a moment, we lie there, facing each other in the dim light filtering through her curtains as she snuggles up to me.
For a while, we lie tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy circles on her arm.
“I used to dream about this,” I admit quietly. “About what it would be like if I hadn’t ruined everything.”
She doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, she snuggles closer.
“Maybe we can’t erase the past,” she says finally. “But maybe we don’t have to let it write the rest of the story.”
I kiss the top of her head. “I’d like that.”
We fall asleep like that. No promises. No declarations. Just two people who hurt each other once, trying to figure out how to start again.
And for the first time in a long time, I think maybe we can.
CHAPTER 7
NATALIE
Kingston’s cabin smells like cedar and laundry detergent. The good kind, the expensive brand, which is probably Kingston’s doing. There’s a candle flickering on the mantle, something piney and citrusy, and the lights are dim, except for the flicker of the TV playing a rerun of some old action movie neither of us is paying attention to.
