Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(21)

She climbs in, turning on the water and watching through the glass door as I undress. I follow her in, suddenly aware of the way my cock grows tight, poking her hip when she turns to kiss my neck.

“I can’t really figure you out,” I admit, closing my eyes when she drags her teeth along my jaw.

“I can’t really figure me out, either, if that’s any consolation.”

It is, actually. She smiles up at me sweetly before turning and picking up the shampoo and putting it in my hand.

“But you’re right: despite my instincts, I sort of like you,” she says, kissing me once and then turning her back to me. “And I bet you give good shower.”

“I like to think so.” I work the shampoo into her hair, piling it on top and massaging her scalp. London leans back into me, and the hot water pounds against my chest. “This sort of reminds me of washing Margot’s dolls’ hair.”

London goes still and then very slowly lifts her head and looks at me over her shoulder. “What.”

I burst out laughing, pressing my face into the warm skin of her neck. “Yeah . . . I can see now that, without context, that was totally creepy. But we used to play doll salon. Being the younger and much-abused brother, I ended up as the shampoo girl. I would bring them to her for blow-dry and style. She would yell at me if I didn’t properly condition.”

“Margot sounds pretty awesome.”

I nod, guiding her head a little to the side so I can massage her neck. “She is. And to this day Sephora is her church.”

“It both thrills and vexes me that you’re a dude who knows about Sephora.”

“And Chico’s,” I tell her, enjoying how easy this all is—even when we’re talking like this in the shower. “Also a place not often frequented by men, but Chico’s is my Grams’s jam. Come to think of it, Mom is a huge fan of Coldwater Creek.” I pause, sudsy fingers deep in her hair. “Jesus, my weekends are dominated by chauffeuring the women in my life.”

“A nice counterbalance to the weeknights dominated by chauffeuring the women in your phone.”

I feel the way we both go still under the water. Just when I think it’s easy between us, just when we’re both unwinding, she goes there.

“Did I say that out loud?” she asks, turning her head but eyes squeezed shut against the slow drip of suds down her forehead.

“You did.”

“And are you glaring at me?”

“No.” But I won’t lie to myself and pretend her impression of me doesn’t sting a little. I put my hands on her shoulders, guiding her around to face me. I wipe the soap from her brows, murmuring, “Rinse.”

I can see in my peripheral vision that she’s watching my face while I coax the water through her hair, rinsing away the suds, but instead of meeting her eyes, I focus on my hands.

“Logan?”

She smiles. “Yeah?”

“Why did you come over here again?” I ask her quietly.

She reaches for the soap and I shiver when her hands press to my stomach and slide up over my chest. “I’m not sure.” She meets my eyes and gives me a sweet, tiny grin. “Sorry I was rude.”

“You were taking your self-loathing out on me, I think. But then, you didn’t have to come over here.”

Her grin turns into a wide, dimpled smile. “You’re not going to goad me into becoming one of the girls in your phone who insist they never do this kind of thing.”

“I’m not trying to goad you. It’s just that in your case, it seems to be true. Even if you hadn’t told me our first night together, I would bet you never do this kind of thing. Not that there would be anything wrong if you did.”

She nods, and watches her hands as she lathers up my chest, my shoulders. I can barely hear her answer over the pounding water: “The sex was good. And I figured you were the kind of guy who can keep it just about sex, which is all I want right now.”

“I can.”

I think.

I mean, it’s never been a problem before, but I’m troubled by how much I want her to like me. “I’m going to be honest, though. You sort of suck at it.” Her mouth drops open when I say this, and I quickly add, “Not the sex part—you’re very good at that part, if memory serves—but the part where it’s just about having fun sex together.”

Her blue eyes flash up to mine. “What do you mean? I’m not getting emotional on you.”

I laugh at her quick defense, tickling her sides. “I mean, you’re sort of a jerk to me.”

She giggles. “I’m sorry! I swear I’m not a jerk. I just . . . I don’t want to date, and the kind of guy I would date anyway is nothing like you, but here I am . . . for sex. So yeah, maybe some self-loathing . . . which makes me into a jerk.”

I’m trying to ignore the insult in there. “What kind of guy do you date?”

She looks up at me quizzically. “I don’t.”

I sigh in exasperation, squeezing conditioner into my palm while she washes my arms. I slide my fingers into her hair, saying, “I mean, you’re saying I’m not your type. What is your type?”

“Bearded. Laid-back. Tattoos.”

“Mustard yellow cord-wearing craft brewer?” I ask, and she laughs. “The kind of man who is heavily invested in his mustache wax, so he can get the upturned points just right?”