Chapter 9: As The Spell Breaks

Like the fiery tongue of Satan, hot water streamed through the Moen and licked my back seductively. I brushed the washcloth—heavily lathered with sage-scented soap—across my collarbone and throat.

A hand flattened on the middle of my back and grazed my flesh, finally coming to a rest on the curve of my shoulder. I turned my face toward the caramel-tinted appendage and rested my cheek against it. His lips pressed into the base of my neck, warm and tender.

"Anthony." I sighed. "We can’t."

"I know," he murmured into my skin.

"This is dangerous. I could kill you."

He reached around and tugged the cloth out of my hold. As he gingerly bathed my stomach, he repeated himself. "I know."

It was such a bad idea. After the 90-minute proverbial dick-throwing contest Nash and I had on stage, I should’ve been exhausted. I wasn’t. In fact, I wanted Anthony more than ever. However, I was also thirstier than ever. That was the problem.