“I didn’t tell him no because of you. I told him no because it’s never felt this way with anyone else—with him—and it wouldn’t have been fair. Asking him to measure up when I already knew he’d fall short.”

I tilt my head up. He looks down at me. Water falls over us. I watch droplets roll down his face and shoulders. Feel it plaster my hair to my neck and my forehead. It’s warm now, turning hot. Steam starts to swirl. He leans one forearm above my head. Reaches for a bottle with his other hand. He drips some clear liquid onto my chest, then returns the bottle to its original spot. His palm lands between my breasts, catching the soap and spreading it. Over my shoulders and along my arms. Around my breasts, down my stomach, and between my legs. I arch against his touch.

“So fucking responsive,” he murmurs.

“I’ve never had shower sex,” I inform him.

“Never?”

“Everything I’ve done…it’s been with you,” I remind him.

Something flashes across his face, but he crushes his lips to mine before I can get a good read on it. In minutes, we’re both coming again. We rinse, towel off, and end up back in bed.

“I can go,” I offer.

“You should stay,” he replies.

“I should?”

He rolls, so he’s spooning me. I feel the brush of his breaths on my shoulder. But he doesn’t say a word. He holds me and lies here.

I’m not sure if I can say anything past the lump in my throat. If I should. I lose track of time as I study the shadows cast by the moonlight.

I fight my heavy eyelids. I don’t want to miss a moment. It’s not until I feel exhaustion start to spread that I speak the words that have been sitting on my tongue ever since he told me I deserve more.

“This is everything.”

He says nothing. But the arm splayed across my stomach tenses for a second, and I know he heard me.

I close my eyes and let sleep pull me all the way under.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In the morning, we both pretend like last night never happened. Emmett has to be at the gym early on Saturdays, so the coast is clear to wander around the loft. I pull on one of Gray’s T-shirts, and he puts on a pair of boxer briefs.

The smell of pancakes and sizzling bacon soon fills the apartment. Gray can cook—better than I can. He made the same breakfast our first morning together, back in my parents’ house after the disastrous dinner with his. The memory tugs at something in my chest.

I take a seat on the kitchen counter and drum my heels against the lower cabinets, watching him work.

“You could contribute, you know,” Gray teases me as he measures flour.