“Shower time,” he declares triumphantly.

“Put me down!” I try and fail to sound disapproving. My struggle is futile—his arm is

firmly clamped over my thighs—and for some reason I cannot stop giggling.

“Fond of these shoes?” he asks amused as he opens the door to his bathroom.

“I prefer them to be touching the floor.” I attempt to snarl at him, but it’s not very ef-

fective as I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice.

“Your wish is my command, Miss Steele.” Without putting me down, he slips off both

of my shoes and lets them clatter to the tile floor. Pausing by the vanity, he empties his

pockets—dead Blackberry, keys, wallet, the keychain. I can only imagine what I look like

in the mirror from this angle. When he’s finished, he marches directly into his overlarge

shower.

“Christian!” I scold loudly—his intent is now clear.

He switches the water on at max. Jeez!Arctic water spurts over my backside, and I

squeal—then stop, mindful once more that José is above us. It’s cold and I’m fully clothed.

The chilling water soaks into my dress, my panties, and my bra. I’m drenched and I cannot

stop giggling.

“No!” I squeal. “Put me down!” I swat him again, harder this time, and Christian re-

leases me, letting me slide down his now soaked body. His white shirt is stuck to his chest

and his suit pants are sodden. I am soaked, too, flushed, giddy and breathless, and he’s

grinning down at me, looking so . . . so unbelievably hot.

He sobers, his eyes shining, and cups my face again, drawing my lips to his. His kiss

is gentle, cherishing, and totally distracting. I no longer care that I am fully clothed and

soaking wet in Christian’s shower. It’s just the two of us beneath the cascading water. He’s

back, he’s safe, he’s mine.

My hands move involuntarily to his shirt as it clings to every line and sinew of his

chest, revealing the hair scrunched beneath the white wetness. I yank the shirt hem out of

his pants, and he groans against my mouth, but his lips do not leave mine. As I unbutton his

shirt, he reaches for my zipper, slowly sliding the clasp down my dress. His lips become

more insistent, more provocative, his tongue invading my mouth—and my body explodes

with desire. I tug his shirt hard, ripping it open. The buttons fly everywhere, ricocheting off

the tiles and disappearing onto the shower floor. As I strip the wet material off his shoulders

and down his arms, I press him into the wall, hampering his attempts to undress me. “Cuf-

flinks,” he murmurs, holding up his wrists where his shirt hangs sodden and limp.

With scrambling fingers, I release first one and then the other cuff, letting his gold cuf-

flinks fall carelessly to the tiled floor and his shirt follows. His eyes search mine through

the cascading water, his gaze burning, carnal, heated like the water. I reach for the waist-

band of his pants, but he shakes his head and grabs my shoulders, spinning me round so

I am facing away from him. He finishes the long journey south with my zipper, smoothes

my wet hair away from my neck, and runs his tongue up my neck to my hairline and back

again, kissing and sucking as he goes.

I moan and slowly he peels my dress off my shoulders and down past my breasts, kiss-

ing my neck beneath my ear. He unclasps my bra and pushes it off my shoulders, freeing

my breasts. His hands reach around and cup each one as he murmurs his appreciation in

my ear.

“So beautiful,” he whispers.

My arms are trapped by my bra and dress, which hang unfastened below my breasts,

my arms still in the sleeves but my hands are free. I roll my head, giving Christian better

access to my neck and push my breasts into his magical hands. I reach round behind me

and welcome his sharp intake of breath as my inquisitive fingers make contact with his

erection. He pushes his groin into my welcoming hands. Dammit, why didn’t he let me

take his pants off?

He tugs on my nipples, and as they harden and stretch under his expert touch, all

thoughts of his pants disappear and pleasure spikes sharp and libidinous in my belly. I lean

my head back against him and groan.

“Yes,” he breathes and turns me once more, capturing my mouth with his. He peels

my bra, dress and panties down so they join his shirt in a soggy heap on the shower floor.

I grab the body wash beside us. Christian stills as he realizes what I am about to do.

Staring him straight in the eye, I squirt some of the sweet-smelling gel into my palm and

hold my hand up in front of his chest, waiting for an answer to my unspoken question. His

eyes widen, then he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

Gently I place my hand on his sternum and start to rub the soap into his skin. His chest

rises as he inhales sharply, but he stands stock-still. After a beat, his hands clasp my hips,

but he doesn’t push me away. He watches me warily, his look intense more than scared, but

his lips are parted as his breathing increases.

“Is this okay?” I whisper.

“Yes.” His short, breathy reply is almost a gasp. I am reminded of the many showers

we’ve had together, but the one at the Olympic is a bittersweet memory. Well, now I can

touch him. I wash him using gentle circles, cleaning my man, moving to his underarms,

over his ribs, down his flat firm belly, toward his happy trail, and the waistband of his pants.

“My turn,” he whispers and reaches for the shampoo, shifting us out of range of the

stream of water and squirting some on to the top of my head.

I think this is my cue to stop washing him, so I hook my fingers into his waistband. He

works the shampoo into my hair, his firm, long fingers massaging my scalp. Groaning in

appreciation, I close my eyes and give myself over to the heavenly sensation. After all the

stress of the evening, this is just what I need.

He chuckles and I open one eye to find him smiling down at me. “You like?”

“Hmm . . .”

He grins. “Me, too,” he says and leans over to kiss my forehead, his fingers continuing

their sweet, firm kneading of my scalp.

“Turn round,” he says authoritatively. I do as I’m told, and his fingers slowly work over

my head, cleansing, relaxing, loving me as they go. Oh, this is bliss. He reaches for more

shampoo and gently washes the long tresses down my back. When he’s finished, he pulls

me back under the shower.

“Lean your head back,” he orders quietly.

I willingly comply, and he carefully rinses out the suds. When he’s done, I face him

once more and make a beeline for his pants.

“I want to wash all of you,”

I whisper. He smiles that lopsided smile and lifts his hands in a gesture that says “I’m

all yours, baby.” I grin; it feels like Christmas. I make short work of his zipper, and soon

his pants and boxers join the rest of our clothing. I stand and reach for the body wash and

the freshwater sponge.

“Looks like you’re pleased to see me,” I murmur dryly.

“I’m always pleased to see you, Miss Steele.” He smirks at me.

I soap the sponge, then retrace my journey over his chest. He’s more relaxed—maybe

because I’m not actually touching him. I head south with the sponge, across his belly, along

the happy trail, through his pubic hair, and over and up his erection.

I peek up at him, and he regards me with hooded eyes and sensual longing. Hmm . . . I

like this look.I drop the sponge and use my hands, grasping him firmly. He closes his eyes,

tips his head back, and groans, thrusting his hips into my hands.

Oh yes! It’s so arousing. My inner goddess has resurfaced after her evening of rocking