Midnight Muse

My staring didn’t last long, and although I wanted to ask him about the scars that look like lightning, erratic threads in the sky, I managed to keep my intrusive questions to myself.

I covered myself with the towel he handed me as I slipped out of his leather jacket, returning it to him with a grimace. It was heavy with rain, and I hope it’s not ruined. The fabric of the towel helped cover my pert nipples, hard from the cold and Knox’s glorious presence before me. It didn’t stop the shiver from raking down my spine and collecting between the apex of my thighs when Knox leaned over to stretch the jacket across a nearby chair, showing off the impressive expanse of rippling muscle lining his back.

I’m standing in the bathroom, completely beside myself. I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve sprinted right past Ace fucking Rory into the couch and locked myself in my room. I should’ve shoved my headphones into my ears and turned my music all the up to drown out the sounds of them having sex. It would’ve been way more mortifying for me, but at least I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m currently in.

Huffing out a breath of frustration, I slide my phone from my pocket. The case sticks against my damp jeans and I nearly drop it onto the tiles below my feet when I manage to pry it free. My heart races in my chest as I catch it, clutching it even tighter. Thankfully, it has made it out of the rain unscathed, but the battery is running low.

Quickly, I pull up Slate’s contact and shoot off a text before I can really think about it, asking when he’ll be returning to the apartment. When the message reads delivered and there isn’t an instant reply, I tack on that he’s missing out on hot gossip because I know that will draw him home like a bee on honey.

“Okay, you can do this,” I mutter to myself, taking a breath to calm my nerves. “Just take it one step at a time. A shower, first.”

There’s a pile of clothes that Knox found for me, folded atop the counter. Sifting through them quickly, I wonder if I should be thankful. There’s a plain black t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, not forgotten garments of the three boys’ conquests or items left behind from rowdy partygoers that may have been a little too drunk to remember all of their clothing.

Drunk. That’s what I need to be right now.

Snagging the wash cloth from the top of the pile, I twist the knob on the shower until steam begins filling the small room. For a bathroom in a college boys’ apartment, it’s cleaner than I thought it would be. There’s a shower mat placed outside of the tub and they even have a shower curtain. Surprisingly, the toilet seat is also down.

Three towels hang on hooks around the room but that’s the only disorderly thing about it. A brown one hangs on the back of the door next to a robe, and I recognize it as the same one Slate had worn to my drawing class the day that he modeled for us.

It’s shocking that I actually remember what he was wearing that day.

There’s a gray towel slung along a rod nailed beside the shower and a dark azure one hanging from a hook next to it. Wondering which towel belongs to which roommate helps keep my mind off of my internal freakout.

Stop distracting yourself.

Right. The shower.

I’m still shivering a little when I strip down, peeling my wet clothes from my body. It’s hard to wiggle from my jeans with the way they’re clinging to my legs and I nearly trip, biting back the noise of fright that tries to free itself from my throat when I stumble.

Righting myself, I take a moment to ease the racing of my heart. I pray that the hot water will relax my tight muscles and clear my head of all my worried thoughts.

The spray is delightful. Near scalding in temperature, I relax almost instantly under its prefect pressure. They’ve clearly replaced the shower-head because this is utterly fucking therapeutic. This one is heaven sent compared to the leaky one in my apartment. I release a sigh of enjoyment at the way the water warms my aching bones.

When it’s time to shampoo, I eye the products lining the built-in shelf. There are enough that I’m surprised, immediately trying to discern what belongs to each roommate. I eye the three-in-one Knox mentioned was Slate’s and laugh because with hair like his I wouldn’t expect him to be using that, but hey, whatever works for him.

There are three other bottles of shampoo, along with hair oils, expensive looking conditioners, razors, shaving cream, and face washes all lined up nicely—presumably in the order they’re used on the shelf. Reading the bottles of each one as the water pours soothingly down my back, I tentatively pick one up and take a whiff of the product. The label reads hydrating but the overpowering lavender scent that consumes my senses nearly makes me gag.

Next.

The second bottle smells like actual heaven. It’s deep, musky, and masculine. There are hints of pine and something I can’t really describe as anything other than man.

It’s every woman’s wet dream.

It’s a little robust for me but I use it anyway because I haven’t gotten any in months and I want to smell like I’ve just been cuddled up to the most gorgeous, amazing-smelling man in the world. Seriously, I’m debating stealing this for when I finally get a boyfriend and force him to bathe in it.

I lather it in my hands and scrub it into my scalp, breathing in deeply when the heady scent fills the room.

I work as quickly as I can so Knox doesn’t have anything to complain about except the lack of hot water because I just can’t help myself. I’m cold and I want to marry his shower-head.

If it were detachable, I’d absolutely take it down to the courthouse right now.

My stomach twists at the thought that the products I’m using right now might be Knox’s. We’ve been arguing less, and if it weren’t raining, I might admit that the ride on his motorcycle was nice, minus the near topple we had when we turned the corner to our street. My heart had kicked out of my chest when we slid, but then Knox’s hand caressed my thigh, squeezing it like I had been the one to save us from falling when all I did was try my best not to scream. His reassuring touch had made me wet for a completely different reason than the storm.

After I finish cleaning up, I shut the water off and dry myself off. I feel much better already, no longer shivering from the cold.

The clothes Knox gave me make me look like I’m drowning all over again. The shirt drapes long down my legs and I frown, tucking the side of it up into the waistband of the boxers so if anyone happens to walk in on me here, at least they’ll know I have pants on.

I don’t understand how the shirt can fit him so tightly but is so loose on me.