Page 75 of Call You Mine
He’s so fucking cute.
“It’s no big deal,” I tell him.
“Seriously, love. I feel like such an idiot.” Through the clouded glass, I see his hand come up to his head, and I can picture the way he runs it through his hair. “I barely got any sleep last night between calls, and then my uncle brought me into his office this morning for a conversation I wasnotprepared for.” He exhales, letting his head fall back against the door with a soft thud. “I’m so damn tired.” His voice cracks.
Neither of us says anything, just the water filling the silence.
I don’t know if it’s the caretaking tendencies that come with being an eldest daughter or the emotion I hear in his voice, but something has me sliding the door, opening it back up slowly.
Anderson straightens, turning to face me.
He keeps his eyes on mine, not letting them stray, but it looks like he’s struggling to keep them open.
We’re both naked, like we have been before, but this time feels different. There’s no rush or urgency like there has been in the past.
My mind drifts to the last night we spent together, the first night he ever woke up to me leaving. Every other night, I was able to sneak out while he was still asleep.
There was something different about that night.
Like it was the start of something, something I wasn’t ready for but had no choice but to accept.
Little did I know that Georgie would call me and change my life forever.
That must have been where the feeling came from.
The universe somehow knew Anderson and I were going to be tied together—but just for a little while.
My eyes roam Anderson’s features, and I can see the exhaustion on his face, in his heavy-lidded, unfocused gaze. His blinks drag, like each one is a battle to keep his eyes open. His shoulders are slumped, as if just standing upright on his feet is taking all of his energy.
“Come here,” I whisper, reaching out for his arm, my wet palm dragging over his skin until I find his hand.
He just looks at me, a hint of confusion now in his features, but he doesn’t say anything.
So I say it again. “Come here.”
This time, I pull him to me.
And he lets me.
He steps into the shower, and I lead him until his back is against the stream. “Lean your head forward,” I instruct.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I don’t let myself think about it as I reach up and run my hands through his hair, the waves getting darker as the water washes over them, our bodies pressed together under the stream.
Anderson’s eyes fall closed, his hands tentatively coming to my waist to help keep himself steady.
Reaching for the shampoo, I squeeze some into my hands before rubbing them together.
He hums, low and guttural, as I work the shampoo into his hair, his fingers pushing harder into my skin as he squeezes my waist.
My nails scratch against his scalp before I let my palms fall to his neck, easing his head back into the stream, washing away all the soap.
I feel him go hard against my stomach, but he doesn’t make a move to do anything about it—neither of us does.
While there is tension between us—I think there always will be—all of it dissipates in this moment, leaving nothing but the raw, exposed parts that we’re both committed to keeping hidden.
Committed to even accepting that they are there.
“Ava,” Anderson whispers. His eyes are still closed, his grip still tight, my chest pressed against his. “What are you doing?”
