I can never ask him for what I really want, so I say instead, “I need the bathroom.”
“Mm.” A devilish smile tugs on his lips, and his touch becomes ticklish.
“You’re crushing my bladder.”
With another groan, he lets up, but not before he opens his eyes to stare at me with those pools of bitter chocolate.
Skittering from the bed, I pretend I don’t see the questions or the lust as his gaze follows me to the bathroom. I rush through my morning grooming, glancing from time to time through the crack in the door toward the bed to make sure he stays there. It’s when I brush my teeth that my reflection in my mirror catches me off-guard. Seeing the scars while I’m clothed is new. Grotesque and unsightly, they jar me so much I don’t notice Damian has left the bed until he walks into the bathroom. The toothbrush jerks in my hand. He comes up from behind, plants a kiss on my shoulder, and pulls off his boxers. I swallow a glob of toothpaste. His erection juts out from a nest of dark hair and heavy testicles, and Damian shows it off proudly. The sharp mint flavor stings my throat, making my eyes water. I cough around the toothbrush, looking anywhere but in the mirror.
He brushes up against me, letting me feel his hardness through the T-shirt on my lower back.
“Sleep well?” he murmurs against my neck.
I blink the tears from my eyes, and mumble something incomprehensible through a gargle of bubbles.
He has the audacity to slap my ass, making me jump, before he casually gets into the shower. The water comes on, and I can’t help myself. I dare another glance at the cubicle in the mirror, expecting him in the same pose from the night before, one hand braced on the wall and the other stroking himself, but he’s got his back turned to me, running his fingers through the thick, dark locks of his hair as water cascades down his broad back.
Rinsing out my mouth only once, I dash through the door, but then stop as my new dilemma hits me. I have nothing to wear. Going through his cupboards, I pull on a pair of his exercise shorts before padding barefoot down the hallway to knock on Anne’s door.
She opens it wide, wearing boy shorts and a crop top. I’m not sure who she expected, but the corners of her mouth drop when she sees me, and then it turns into a full-blown scowl when she takes in my attire.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She opens the door wider. “Come in.”
Stepping over the threshold, I take in the décor, and at the same time I realize I’ve never set foot in this room, the knowledge of who the room is intended for hits me between the eyes. It’s a mirror image of Damian’s room, but feminine in design. This is the bedroom meant for the lady of the house. Why did Damian put me in his room and not here? Was it because Anne’s clothes were already here, or because I’m not the woman of the house and will never be? More importantly, I haven’t searched this room because we have a guest staying in here. Could the evidence be hidden in here?
Her gaze runs over me. “I see last night was an icebreaker.”
I look down at Damian’s T-shirt, and when I catch her drift, my cheeks heat. “I came to ask if I may please borrow a dress.” I iron out the T-shirt with my palms. “I, um, ran out of clothes.”
Her mouth puckers. “You’ll drown in my dresses.” She marches to the closet and returns with a pair of jeans and T-shirt. “Take these.” She motions at the T-shirt. “It has long sleeves.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I’ll drown more in her jeans than her dresses. My ass will never be able to fill them out like hers, but I take the garments from her without pointing out my obvious flaws. “I’ll wash and return these tomorrow.”
“No rush.” She holds the door open, my cue to leave, but speaks again when I’m crossing the threshold. “How was it?”
I grip the clothes against my chest, hiding my naked breasts underneath. “How was what?”
“You know.” She wags her eyebrows.
The early morning sun that filters in from the windows catches the ruby highlights in her chestnut hair. Green eyes watch me with vivid interest. A sense of expectation expands in the air, and envy becomes a tangible thing. Does she notice she’s holding her breath? She’s trying to downplay it, keeping her tone light and disinterested, but it’s there in the hesitation, in the way she couldn’t stop herself from blurting the question out before I’d walked from the room. It’s there in the way her gaze keeps on flittering back to Damian’s T-shirt. She wants him. She wants him badly enough to hate me for wearing his clothes. I want to tell her that her hate is wasted, that she can have him on a silver platter with a pretty bow, and that I’ll even say thank you for diverting his attention, anything to turn his interest away from my body, but Russell’s voice sounds from below.