He shook his head. “Although naked . . . It’s a good look on you.”

“You, too,” I said honestly.

His gaze met mine. His chest expanded. “Jo.”

Just my name. Like he saw me. Like he wanted me, red face, wild hair, and all. My stomach relaxed and steadied.

“I thought you might need help scrubbing your back,” I said, and stepped into the shower with him.

It was a tight fit. He had to put his arms around me so I could get under the warm spray. His body was warm, too, solid and slippery against mine.

His hand curved around my jaw. His thumb stroked my cheekbone, and then he was kissing me—slow, soft, unhurried kisses in delicious contrast to the hard demand of his body. He kissed like this was the main course instead of merely an appetizer, like he could go on kissing me for hours. Which was great, but I was hungry. Greedily, I ran my hands up his arms and around his neck, sinking against him, into him, trying to absorb as many textures as I could. He felt so good. I wanted to climb him like a tree.

He turned me, my back against the tile, protecting my face from the spray. “Jo.” His voice was husky. “I didn’t plan on . . . I don’t have anything with me.”

I was so drunk with what he did have—hot muscled smoothness—it took a moment for me to understand. “That’s okay,” I assured him. “I do.”

Scrambling out of the shower, I lunged for the shelves, digging past the towels and toilet paper, grabbing and discarding boxes by feel. Tissues, tampons . . . There. At the back. Condoms. I’d bought them when I moved to New York, a single woman in the big city.

I turned, flushed with triumph at my foresight, brandishing the half-empty box like a prize.

He stood motionless under the shower, studying me as if I were a plate he was about to send through the pass. Serious. Focused. No smile at all.

“I don’t do this a lot,” I said. “Invite guys back to my apartment.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up in that knee-weakening smile. “Then I better make it worth your while,” he said, and pulled me with him under the spray.

In the cramped shower, he took up everything, all the space, all the air. He took me over, his hands following the flow of the water, gliding over my muscles and angles, the texture of his calluses grazing my skin. Broad hands, scarred, nicked, and tattooed. Strong hands, capable of breaking down a pig carcass or applying microgreens to a plate with delicate precision. Deliberate hands.

It was hot and wet, carnal and wonderful. I was drenched, drowning in sensation. In him. When the hot water finally ran out, when I was fed, filled, satisfied to bursting, he rolled me in towels and we staggered up to my loft so he could do it all again.