dog and her leg. It was such a relief to get out of the suffocating confines of the car and the tension Vivian stoked.
Hiding the animal under a sweater, she smuggled him into her room. She used her shampoo to wash the animal in the shower. Flat on her butt in the stall, drenched with water and suds, she heard a knock at her door.
“Come in. I’m in the bathroom.”
“Bathroom? Are you sure?” John peered around the door and laughed. “Looks like the dog’s giving you a bath instead of the other way around.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
His gaze raked over her figure, stilling where her white blouse, a transparent sheath caused from the water, clung to her breasts. Her chest tightened, and she pulled the dog self-consciously closer, shielding her from his eyes.
He blinked and seemed to mentally shake himself. “Just checking if you need anything at the store.”
Warmth rushed through her body at his thoughtfulness. “I need a collar and dog food and—oh, yes. A hair brush.”
She started to rise for her purse, but he waved her down with a hand. “You can pay me back later.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“I mean it.” She turned serious. “For the dog, your patience. Everything.”
At his raised brow, she wanted to retract her last word. The way he was looking at her with that devilish gleam in his eyes, she suspected he was thinking what everything might entail. Unexpectedly, she remembered the feel of his mouth and tongue, the touch of his hand.
“Then I’ll see you later.” But he lingered, gazing across the short distance of the bathroom.
Seeing him relaxed and confident, the day’s tension eased from his large body, reminded her of how it used to be, the good times, the simple times. One incident came vividly to mind—washing her car in the driveway during August with the sun warm on their backs. They were almost done, when she accidentally sprayed John with the hose. At least thinking back, she thought it had started out as an accident. She remembered how the cool water flowed down his neck and how the damp shirt hugged the hard indentations of his stomach.
She had liked the sight so much that she squeezed the nozzle and doused him from head to foot.
He spluttered, blinking away the cool liquid. A roguish grin flashed across his features and a mercenary light in his eyes had her protesting.
She giggled nervously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it!”
Dripping water, he advanced on her. Squealing in fright, Clarisse scrambled around the side of the car. But she didn’t get far. Catching her around the waist, he hauled her off the ground and grabbed the nozzle from her.
“Please! Please! I’ll never do it again.”
“Too late.” He smirked, then took aim and sprayed. A torrent of water cascaded down her gapping shirt. But he didn’t stop at her shirt. He pulled her waistband and sprayed into her pants.
“Why of all the—” She spat out water and struggled in the circle of his arms. Slick and slippery as a seal, she slithered free, then caught sight of the bucket of water and suds.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he laughed, his hands catching the back of her drenched t-shirt.
But he was too late. Her hands found a washcloth. Twisting around, she flung the cloth against his neck, up past his ear and into his hair. He spit out suds and his foot slipped. Stumbling, he slid down the side of the car with her still in his arms. The bucket sat by his elbow. Dipping into the water with one hand, he came away with suds and plastered her with foam.
Her shirt rode up her stomach, her skin sliding against his torso. The water’s slickness, the soap and his heated skin silenced her laughter. Her hands once mischievous turned sensual, while his laughing eyes darkened to roughened stone. They kissed, suds and all. The car sat forgotten—so caught up were they in each other. John picked her up and carried into the house, slamming the door behind them with the heel of his
Hiding the animal under a sweater, she smuggled him into her room. She used her shampoo to wash the animal in the shower. Flat on her butt in the stall, drenched with water and suds, she heard a knock at her door.
“Come in. I’m in the bathroom.”
“Bathroom? Are you sure?” John peered around the door and laughed. “Looks like the dog’s giving you a bath instead of the other way around.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
His gaze raked over her figure, stilling where her white blouse, a transparent sheath caused from the water, clung to her breasts. Her chest tightened, and she pulled the dog self-consciously closer, shielding her from his eyes.
He blinked and seemed to mentally shake himself. “Just checking if you need anything at the store.”
Warmth rushed through her body at his thoughtfulness. “I need a collar and dog food and—oh, yes. A hair brush.”
She started to rise for her purse, but he waved her down with a hand. “You can pay me back later.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“I mean it.” She turned serious. “For the dog, your patience. Everything.”
At his raised brow, she wanted to retract her last word. The way he was looking at her with that devilish gleam in his eyes, she suspected he was thinking what everything might entail. Unexpectedly, she remembered the feel of his mouth and tongue, the touch of his hand.
“Then I’ll see you later.” But he lingered, gazing across the short distance of the bathroom.
Seeing him relaxed and confident, the day’s tension eased from his large body, reminded her of how it used to be, the good times, the simple times. One incident came vividly to mind—washing her car in the driveway during August with the sun warm on their backs. They were almost done, when she accidentally sprayed John with the hose. At least thinking back, she thought it had started out as an accident. She remembered how the cool water flowed down his neck and how the damp shirt hugged the hard indentations of his stomach.
She had liked the sight so much that she squeezed the nozzle and doused him from head to foot.
He spluttered, blinking away the cool liquid. A roguish grin flashed across his features and a mercenary light in his eyes had her protesting.
She giggled nervously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it!”
Dripping water, he advanced on her. Squealing in fright, Clarisse scrambled around the side of the car. But she didn’t get far. Catching her around the waist, he hauled her off the ground and grabbed the nozzle from her.
“Please! Please! I’ll never do it again.”
“Too late.” He smirked, then took aim and sprayed. A torrent of water cascaded down her gapping shirt. But he didn’t stop at her shirt. He pulled her waistband and sprayed into her pants.
“Why of all the—” She spat out water and struggled in the circle of his arms. Slick and slippery as a seal, she slithered free, then caught sight of the bucket of water and suds.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he laughed, his hands catching the back of her drenched t-shirt.
But he was too late. Her hands found a washcloth. Twisting around, she flung the cloth against his neck, up past his ear and into his hair. He spit out suds and his foot slipped. Stumbling, he slid down the side of the car with her still in his arms. The bucket sat by his elbow. Dipping into the water with one hand, he came away with suds and plastered her with foam.
Her shirt rode up her stomach, her skin sliding against his torso. The water’s slickness, the soap and his heated skin silenced her laughter. Her hands once mischievous turned sensual, while his laughing eyes darkened to roughened stone. They kissed, suds and all. The car sat forgotten—so caught up were they in each other. John picked her up and carried into the house, slamming the door behind them with the heel of his
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