It’s long and intense and f**king glorious.

As the pleasure wanes, she turns, wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me slowly. Then her head is on my chest, and we stand together under the spray. I can’t keep the awe out of my voice as I say, “God, it gets better every time.”

She laughs. “You too? I thought I was the only one who felt it.” She looks up at me, bites her lip, and pushes my wet hair back from my eyes. It’s a simple gesture. But there’s so much emotion behind it. Her touch is gentle, the look in her eyes so cherishing, like I’m the most wonderful thing she’s ever seen. Like I’m some kind of…treasure.

Normally, a look like that would have me ducking for cover—heading for the nearest exit.

But as I stare at Kate’s face, one hand holding her waist, the other moving through her hair, I don’t want to run. I don’t even want to look away. And I don’t ever want to let go.

“No…I feel it too.”

Chapter 15

I’M NOT BORING YOU with these sordid details, am I? I could shorten this whole thing by simply saying: Kate and I f**ked each other’s brains out all weekend.

But that’s not really much fun.

And it wouldn’t give you the full picture. By taking the long way around, you get all the facts. And a bird’s-eye view of all our little moments. Moments that seemed silly and insignificant at the time. But now that I have the flu, they’re the only things I can think about.

Every minute of every day.

Have you ever gotten a song stuck in your head? Sure you have, everybody does. And maybe it’s a beautiful song, maybe it’s even your favorite. But it’s still annoying, isn’t it? It’s second rate. Because you don’t want to just hear it in your brain—you want it on the radio or live in concert. Replaying it in your mind is just a cheap imitation. A mocking, frigging reminder that you’re not able to hear the real thing.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

Don’t worry, you will.

Now, where was I? That’s right—Saturday night.

“This is the perfect pillow.”

We just ordered food—Italian—and we’re waiting for it to arrive. Kate is sitting on my couch amid an oasis of pillows and blankets. And she’s holding one bedroom pillow in her lap.

“The perfect pillow?”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m very high maintenance when it comes to pillows. And this one is perfect. Not too flat, not too puffy. Not too hard, not too soft.”

I smile. “Good to know, Goldilocks.”

We’ve decided to watch a movie. On-demand cable is the second greatest invention of our time. The first, of course, being the big-screen plasma TV. I get up to fetch the remote while Kate fishes something out of her bag on the floor.

Have I mentioned we’re still naked? We are. Very. It’s liberating.

Fun.

All the good parts are easy to reach. And the view is fantastic.

As I turn to make my way back to the couch, a now-familiar scent assails my nostrils. Sweet and flowery. Sugar and springtime. I look at Kate and find her rubbing lotion on her arms. I grab the bottle from her, like a dog snapping at a bone. “What is this?”

I bring the bottle to my nose and inhale deeply, then fall back against the pillows with a satisfied moan.

Kate laughs. “Don’t snort it. It’s moisturizer. I didn’t realize fighting dry skin got you so revved up.”

I look at the bottle. Vanilla and lavender. I take another deep sniff. “It smells like you. Every time you’re near me, you smell like…like a bouquet of f**king sunshine with brown sugar on top.”

She laughs again. “Aw, Drew, I didn’t know you were a poet. William Shakespeare would be so jealous.”

“Is it edible?”

She makes a face. “No.”

Too bad. I’d have poured it on my food like a rich hollandaise. Guess I’ll just have to settle for tasting it on Kate.

Now that I think about it—that is the preferable option.

“They make a bubble bath too. Since you like it so much, I’ll get some.”

It’s the first reference she’s made about a next time. A hook-up at some later date. A future. Unlike my past bump-and-grinds, the suggestion of a second go-around with Kate doesn’t fill me with indifference or irritation. Instead, I’m eager—excited—about the prospect.

I stare at her for a moment, soaking in the strange enjoyment that comes from just looking at her. I could make a full-time profession out of watching Kate Brooks.

“So,” she asks, “did we decide on a movie?”

She settles up against me, and my arm goes naturally around her. “I was thinking Braveheart.”

“Ugh. What is it with that movie? Why are all men addicted to it?”

“Ah, the same reason women are obsessed with the freaking Notebook. That is what you were going to suggest, right?”

She smiles slyly, and I know I guessed right.

“The Notebook is romantic.”

“It’s f**king g*y.”

She hits me in the face with the “perfect” pillow.

“It’s sweet.”

“It’s nauseating. I have friends who are flaming homosexuals—and that movie is too g*y for them.”

She sighs dreamily. “It’s a love story, a beautiful love story. The way everyone tried to keep them apart. But then, years later, they found each other again. It was fate.”