Joy Ride
That’s why I somehow decide it’s perfectly suitable for this gorgeous creature to be naked in my apartment while I’m in another room. “Do it.”
She claps with glee. “I remembered reason five why I make a good girlfriend.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m very neat in the bathroom, and I always put the towels and bubble bath away.”
I nod in the direction of the tub. “Get your ass in the tub or I’ll rescind my offer.”
She does, snapping shut the door to the bathroom. A few seconds later, the sound of running water fills the air. The image of her stripping to nothing fills my brain.
“Idiot,” I mutter to myself, as I pour a glass of Scotch to get me through this Herculean challenge. “Do you fucking like torture?”
Evidently, I do.
But I also like it when she calls my name twenty minutes later. I leave the living room and my empty Scotch glass, and stand at the door of the bathroom. My hand is on the doorknob. She can’t possibly want me to come in, can she?
“Max,” she shouts again, “I have an idea for the wheels.”
“You want to just shout through the door, or do you think it can wait till you get out?” I ask drily.
“It can’t wait! You have to come in.”
No. No. Just no. Just no fucking way. This is a trick. A setup. A test. And if it’s none of those, it’s definitely a very bad idea.
“You’re in the tub, Henley,” I say, pointing out the obvious.
Water sloshes loudly from the tub, hitting the floor. “I know, and it’s to die for. I’m also covered in bubbles, so don’t worry. You won’t see any of my girlfriend parts.”
I laugh, a hearty chuckle from deep in my belly. She’s killing me with the girlfriend or non-girlfriend routine. But even though my hand is wrapped tight around the doorknob, common sense has me in its grip. “I’ll catch you when you’re not naked.”
“Max, I swear I’m decent. I used so many bubbles I’m going to need to replace your ocean bubble bath. By the way, it’s super manly, so you won’t have to worry about me smelling like a girl. I smell like a dude, and I want to talk about tires. Get in here. Think of me as one of the guys.”
One of the guys. One of the guys. One of the guys. She could never be one of the guys, but I let myself believe my own line of bullshit.
It’s my excuse for doing something I shouldn’t do.
For turning the knob.
For pushing open the door.
For stepping into the warm, steamy bathroom that smells like the ocean. The feminine ocean.
For shutting the door.
Most of all, for looking at her. She’s like a dark-haired mermaid, a Venus of the sea.
Her hair is twisted high on her head in a messy bun. Her knees poke out of the water. Her arms rest on the edge of the tub. Her body, as promised, is submerged under gobs and gobs of bubbles.
None of the cover-up matters.
I can imagine her nudity perfectly.
My throat dries. I try to swallow. It’s like a desert in my mouth. I should look away. I should be cool with this. But I can’t. I just fucking can’t.
“So here’s what I was thinking . . .” She launches into her idea for the wheels as I cross my arms and lean against the door. Everything she says sounds good, and everything she does drives me fucking crazy. I listen, and I try not to stare. Then, I listen and I stare unabashedly. She’s so normal about this, as if it’s acceptable to lounge naked in my tub at this hour and discuss a car.
It’s not normal.
It’s insanely arousing.
It’s ridiculously hot.
And I’m so fucking turned on I can barely take it. Everything about this moment is wildly inappropriate, and yet she’s chattering on about how the rubber meets the road.
She stares at me. “What do you think?”
“Sounds good,” I mutter.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Great.”
She narrows her eyes and shifts ever so slightly but just enough for the rosy peak of her right nipple to rise above the bubbles before it sinks back down.
There’s no breath in my lungs. There’s no blood in my brain. I can’t think. I can only want. I want her so much. And I hate that I feel this way.
“You think so?”
I blink, and then I unravel. “Yeah. Look. I said it’s great,” I say roughly. Then I point at her, waving dismissively. “And you need to fucking wrap it up.”
“What?” she asks, blinking.
“I’m tired.” Anger colors my tone. “You should go.”
“Oh. Okay.” She sounds chastened, a dog with her tail between her legs, but I can’t care. I leave, slamming the door shut.
I hear water splashing around, then the suction of the drain.
20
Three minutes later, she stands at the door, hastily dressed, damp strands from her bun hitting her face. “Are you okay?”
I rub my hand across the back of my neck, not answering her question. “I ordered an Uber. I gave it an address I knew in SoHo. You’ll need to adjust it to yours. But it’s on my account.”
“Okay.” To say she seems hurt would be a gross understatement. She looks precisely like what she is—a woman being kicked out of a man’s pad. “Did I do something wrong?”
I grit my teeth, trying to rein in my annoyance. But it slithers up, fighting to break free. I clench my fists. “I can’t talk to you while you’re naked in the tub. Don’t you get that? That’s just fucking wrong. We work together. We can’t be this chummy. This whole night was a huge mistake.”
Her eyes widen, starting to fill with tears, but she draws a deep, shaky breath. “Message received.”
“I’ll walk you out,” I say, because I can’t be a total dick.
“That’s not necessary.” Her voice is hard again.
“I’m doing it anyway.”
She narrows her eyes and looks away, then yanks open my door. She walks two paces ahead and stabs the down button at the elevator. When it arrives, we ride in silence. We reach the lobby, and she says, “I can take it from here.”
I don’t listen to her. I walk her out the door to the curb and make sure she’s safely inside the white Honda.
She doesn’t say good-bye. I don’t either. I seethe as I head back upstairs.
I stalk down the hallway, so much fucking annoyance rolling off me that I swear I can smell it—the fumes of my own frustration.
I reach my place, and the second the door slams shut behind me, my belt is undone, my hand is in my briefs, and I grab my cock. My aching, throbbing, insistent cock.
I stroke hard, letting the back of my head hit the door, shutting my eyes. Roughly, with one desperate goal, I grip my shaft and I jack it.
I can’t take this. I can’t stand being this attracted to her.
Wanting to touch her.
Wanting to fuck her.
Wanting to kiss her.
Wanting to fucking get to know her. Most of all, I can’t stand that. How much I’m starting to like her, and I can’t like her. I just fucking can’t.
But I can’t walk around this hard. This aroused. This immensely turned on by everything she does.
She’s killing me, and she doesn’t even know it.
I groan as I wrap my fist tighter. I shuttle my palm up and down, rocking into it. My jeans slide down my hips, and the belt buckle smacks the door with every tug.