Page 226 of Hot Mess
“What, myself?”
I wrinkled my nose a bit, smiling. “Well, I meant with a lover. Like had her or him taste it, before and after you drank the juice.”
Ashley considered that as he dove into his chicken sandwich. “You know, I think I meant to, but never got around to it. Usually when my dick’s about to slide into someone’s mouth, I forget about everything else.”
“Uh-huh.” I grinned at him and bit into my raspberry Danish.
“Quit looking at me like that or I’m gonna fuck you before we get to eat this… and I’m gonna be ejaculating dust.”
“Eat.”
We ate. Then he guzzled a bunch of pineapple juice straight from the jug and arched an eyebrow at me, offering me the jug.
I laughed and took a sip.
When we were sated, we slid back down into a horizontal position. He offered me a shower, but I couldn’t move. Way too comfy in his shirt, in his bed.
I actually dozed off a bit when he went to shower.
I heard him singing the Red Hot Chili Peppers, “Can’t Stop.”
Then the next thing I knew, I woke up to Ashley nuzzling and kissing the back of my neck, and his warm hand on my waist.
“You want a shower?” he murmured against my skin.
I groaned something unintelligible and stirred a bit.
He kissed me again.
“Do you always sing the Chili Peppers when you’re alone in the shower?” I asked him sleepily, trying to wake up.
“Yes.”
“I like it.”
“Shower, babe. You’ll feel better. The bathroom’s all nice and warm and steamy for you.”
“Okay…”
I dragged myself up and drifted into his warm, steamy bathroom. I had the world’s most amazing shower—well, except for yesterday’s shower—then brushed my teeth with my finger and some of his toothpaste, and slipped his T-shirt back on. Then I drifted back to bed, where he was lying naked under the sheet, and climbed back in with him.
He was awake, but relaxed, and I snuggled up against him, running my hand over his chest and playing with his nipple.
“Good shower?” he asked, his voice soft and husky.
“Perfect.”
“I didn’t hear you singing.”
“I don’t always sing in the shower.”
“Huh,” he said, like that was unusual.
Was it?
I ran my hand down his arm… over the tattoo of the white-blonde mermaid on his forearm.
“Is this Elle?” I asked him. I’d read something about that, in one of my internet stalking sessions. I didn’t know what to think of it at the time, and had actually forgotten about it—until yesterday, when he told me he’d dated her.
