Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(45)

I swing open the glass shower door and turn on the hot water. I step in, the hot liquid raining on me. In a couple minutes, the steam mists the mirror.

Soothing. Until I catch sight of the male body products—the men’s shampoo and soap. If I wasn’t being doused with hot water, I might’ve frozen again.

“Thora.”

I jump. And knock over the shampoo bottle and a washcloth. I carefully set them back in their proper places. My heart performs a death-defying acrobatic routine without my permission.

“Thora,” Nikolai calls again, muffled behind the door. The shower is loud enough to drown out most noise, including him returning from Amour tonight.

“Yeah?!” I call back.

“I have to wash my face,” he tells me, his deep voice hard to hear. “I left my remover…” He’s drowned out by the splash of water on tiles.

I whip my head to the rack of gray towels nearby. I can snatch one and spread it across the fogged glass, but it’s misted enough that he’d only see my body shape, nothing more. I think.

The brazen side of me, the one that I’ve been tapping into, says what if? What if I stay put? Just like this. I’ve been satisfied being the unsexy friend in Shay’s eyes, but my stomach drops at the thought of Nikolai ever awarding me that title.

I channel my confidence and run my fingers through my wet hair, able to see a blurry outline of the door as it opens. Nikolai slips inside, shirtless, I can tell. After shutting the door behind him, he takes a few lengthy strides to the sink.

“Sorry,” he apologizes in that low tone. He wipes fog off the mirror with the side of his fist. “I would’ve washed my face backstage, but I needed eye drops…fuck.”

I instinctively wipe the glass like he did—a clear streak by my face so I can see him better. His eyes are tightened shut like makeup got in them. He fumbles around for his eye drops and remover, searching through the cabinet and cupboards for the bottles. Frustration lines his forehead and binds his shoulders.

I’m about to step into the most fearless part of myself. Without hesitation, I shut off the shower, secure a towel around my body and go to his aid.

He knocked over his eye drops in the sink, and I find his remover in the lower cupboard. I quickly gather them. When I rise fully, he squints in my direction, his eyes incredibly bloodshot. Dark purple shadow is smudged beneath both lids and black liner swept above. He has dots of silver paint by his hairline and brows.

I’d think he wore it well if he wasn’t in pain. “You must be allergic to something,” I say softly.

He gestures to the purple shadow. “I bought a new brand…” His face contorts. I wonder if his eyes burn. Before he rubs them, he turns away from me and rinses his face with sink water, gripping the counter with white knuckles.

I soak a cloth with the remover, and after he dries his face, the makeup horribly smeared across his eyes and forehead, he rotates back to me.

“I can help you…if you kneel,” I tell him, a lump rising to my throat.

His brows knot while he contemplates my offer. He scans my body, covered in only a soft gray towel that stops at my thighs. Beads of water roll down my neck to the tops of my breasts. I breathe heavily, as though his gaze depletes my energy.

I didn’t have time to dry off. My sopping dirty-blonde hair is splayed over one shoulder, and a pool of water collects at my cold feet.

The tense quiet grows, and I’m about to open my mouth and retract the offer. But he slowly drops to his knees, his face much closer to mine, his reddened eyes never deterring from me.

The washcloth feels heavy in my hand. “Stay still,” I tell him.

The corner of his lip nearly lifts. “That’s my line.”

I recall the bet at The Red Death, when he pierced me. “Okay, then close your eyes,” I say. “That’s not yours, is it?”

He smiles now, even as his lids shut. “I’ve used it before, but it’s cuter coming from you.”

I absorb this compliment right before I press the washcloth beneath his eye, gently rubbing the makeup off. His hands ascend to my hips, holding onto me. I hone in on the pressure of each fingertip, only a towel away from my skin. I wonder if I can even concentrate enough to remove the purple shadow.

Focus, Thora.

I’m trying. But there is a six-foot-five Russian athlete kneeling at my feet, clutching onto me, shirtless—while I wear only a towel. My body responds with rhythmic pulses between my legs. And I do everything I can to shut out these feelings.

Small talk.

I’ll make small talk. “Thanks for letting me stay here,” I say first, applying more remover onto the cloth before I dab at his forehead.

“It’s no problem,” he says. “If you need to stay longer, the couch is free.”

His hands practically burn through the towel.

“I’ll be out by the end of the week,” I tell him assuredly. I thought about returning to Camila’s, but she hasn’t mentioned anything about it. I don’t want to overstay my welcome, especially when I was supposed to be out of there soon, regardless of her family. “My paycheck comes in then, and I’ve already narrowed down a couple studio apartments.” I don’t mention any logistics, like having to dip into my savings for the deposit. But it’ll be worth it in the long run. I hate mooching off him, and it’s been weighing on me.