Hot Water 35
Judah was in his office with a woman named Lauren Tate who had been making herself available to him for the better part of six months and had not yet understood what that meant.
She was dark-haired. That was the thing. Dark-haired and pale-skinned and green eyed — and as of the last five days, that had started meaning something entirely different.
She was on his desk. Her blouse was missing three buttons — he’d ripped them out, eager to get to her skin — to inhale that sweet perfume and get lost in her.
The office was dark except for the lamp in the corner, which threw a low amber light across everything — the bookshelf, the worn leather chair, the small wooden cross on the wall.
Lauren had her hands braced behind her on the desk, her head tipped back, and she was making sounds that he was only partially hearing because the part of his brain that was supposed to be here kept doing something else entirely. Or rather someone.
He would fuck her, that was the contract between them, but he didn’t owe her anything besides.
His hand wrapped around her throat as he bottomed out.
She gasped, her pulse fluttering beneath his thumb, and he held her there — suspended between pleasure and that edge of fear he'd grown accustomed to inspiring.
But it wasn't her fear he wanted tonight.
It was something else, something that had been gnawing at him since Sunday service when he'd watched Mercy's hands tremble as she arranged the communion wine.
“Judah,” Lauren breathed; the sound of his name in her mouth felt wrong. He tightened his grip just enough to make her eyes widen, then released her entirely, pulling back.
“Get dressed,” he said, turning away from her confusion. The tattoo of a burning Garden of Eden stretched across his shoulder blades as he reached for his shirt.
“Did I—” she started, but he cut her off with a look that made her fingers fumble with what remained of her buttons.
“It's late. Darlene will be locking up soon.” The lie came easily. Darlene had left hours ago, but Lauren didn't need to know that. What she needed was to understand that this — whatever she thought this was — had reached its conclusion.
She slid off the desk, her movements jerky and graceless in the half-light. The sound of fabric rustling filled the silence between them as she gathered her things. He didn't watch her leave, but he heard the soft click of the door, the hurried tap of her heels down the hallway.
Alone, Judah pressed his palms flat against the desk where she'd been.
The wood was still warm. He could smell her perfume — something cloying and desperate that clung to the air like a confession.
But beneath it, he imagined he caught something else: the scent of true temptation, the fruit of the forbidden tree.
There were keys in his pocket. He fingered them absently, thinking of all the rooms in this place that were locked to the curious many, but unlocked for the brave few. He thought about all the doors she hadn’t opened. The thought sent heat pooling low in his pelvis.
Mercy.
He found himself laughing. Alone. In the half-light. Like a madman.
There was no mercy in it. It was torture.
He moved to the window, watching the empty street below.
The heat hadn't broken even with nightfall; it pressed against the glass like a living thing, making the world beyond shimmer and blur.
Somewhere out there, in that small apartment above the food bank, she was probably reading.
He'd noticed the stack of library books on her desk when he'd stopped by earlier — he hadn’t seen the complete titles, but he was fairly certain those hadn’t been books on theology, although… One of them had been called Priest.
He smirked. Naughty girl.
His phone buzzed. Billy Arceneaux, checking in about tomorrow's shipment. Judah ignored it. The routes could wait. Everything could wait when this fever was on him.
He thought about going to her. He could slip inside while she slept, stand in her doorway and watch the rise and fall of her breath.
Would she wake? Would those careful eyes fly open, that perpetual wariness sharpening into real fear?
Or would she surprise him, the way she had in his dreams, by opening her arms and pulling him down into the dark?
The fantasy made him hard again. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, trying to clear his head.
Lord, have mercy on his soul.
The showerhead didn't so much break as reveal its true bastard character.
It had been giving me warning signs — a wheeze on Tuesday, a full stop and reluctant restart on Wednesday — and by Thursday morning it made a sound and died, badly, screaming and sputtering, granting me in total, about forty seconds of lukewarm water before going completely silent.
I stood in the clawfoot tub, clad in sweat — harboring all of Louisiana’s heat in that single sweat droplet that slipped down in between my shoulder blades. Or so it felt like.
The showerhead looked back.
“Fine,” I said.
Darlene didn't even blink when I told her.
Made a face that said this had happened before, waved her hand, told me to use her shower.
Little yellow house past the garden, side door unlocked, towels under the stairs, she'd be in town until noon. She did warn though that the bathroom door didn’t always close fully — which I dismissed almost outright.
I would be alone — the door could be full-blast open for all I cared.
Darlene's house was small and immaculate and smelled like the same rose I'd noticed on her the first day, which meant either she grew them or she'd been wearing the same perfume for so long it had become architectural. Photographs covered the mantelpiece — grandchildren, a man I assumed was her late husband, a younger Darlene standing in front of Grace Eternal with a shovel, which raised questions that I wasn’t in the mood of unearthing.
The bathroom was at the end of a short hallway, yellow tile, a window above the tub with frosted glass that let in the morning light without letting in the street. Clean. I supposed Darlene followed the age old saying to a “t” — cleanliness is next to godliness.
I closed the door — it didn’t want to stay closed — it opened with a slow, theatrical yawn. Tried again — popped open after a few seconds.
I stared at it, hands on my hips.
“Whatever,” I muttered. “Stay difficult.”
I undressed, stepped in the tub and pulled the curtain closed. The water ran hot immediately.
“Show off,” I muttered, but quickly realized hot wasn’t exactly what I needed when the temperature outside was a solid 90 degrees. Hot turned to lukewarm, and lukewarm turned to cool.
I stood under it for longer than I needed to. Water ran down my body, washing away more than just the sweat and the dirt.
This was a thing I did when I could — stayed in the shower past the point of utility, let the heat work on the knot I carried permanently between my shoulder blades, let the sound of the water be the only sound.
My father had believed in short showers.
Efficiency. Showers were for getting clean, not for whatever he imagined I was doing in there, which was apparently a moral concern.
I had never figured out the specific theology of it.
That is not until I had learned of showerheads with settings.
Particularly pressure settings. Suddenly my father’s concerns had gained some ground.
Darlene did have one of those fascinating showerheads.
Did I dare?
Judah had three things to collect from Darlene's house and had been told, in the tone she used when she wasn't asking, to do it before noon.
The day was hot, and he wanted to do this quick — in, out — on his way. The spare ledger, storage keys and June receipts she said she’d left on the kitchen table.
He let himself in through the side door and went straight to the kitchen. Ledger on the shelf. Keys on the hook. He reached for the folder on the table.
But then a sound drifted from down the hall, faint at first. A sigh, maybe. A moan — if he was feeling generous.
He paused, fingers hovering over the folder, his head tilting toward the noise. Darlene was supposed to be in town, and therefore, the shower wasn't Darlene, which was both a relief and the direct opposite of it.
He let his eyes roam the room until they landed on the one thing that didn’t belong in Darlene’s sunset house. A jacket. Leather — entirely unsuitable for Louisiana, but he’d noticed it before. Mercy had been carrying it around yesterday — and the day before that.
He walked to the living room where she’d left it draped over the couch back and reached for it.
The black stood out against Darlene’s sun-painted furniture, a mean slash in an otherwise tranquil setting.
The shoulder was worn smooth, cool against his fingers.
He raised the jacket to his nose and inhaled.
Under the waxy bite of worn leather, he picked up her. Vanilla. Citrus. Tuberose.
It was an expensive aroma. He closed his eyes, his thumb stroking the worn shoulder of the leather. He imagined her someplace that wasn’t St. Francisville — maybe running through a department store, some high-end boutique, late for something, and getting caught in a fresh spray of Armani’s My Way.
But the image shifted, unbidden, to something darker, more immediate — the steam-filled bathroom down the hall, where that sound had come from. He became suddenly aware of his cock against his denim, half hard already.
Judah lowered the jacket, left it where he’d found it.
The house was empty save for that rhythmic patter of water; the pull was magnetic.
He moved silently down the hall, the floorboards creaking faintly under his weight, each step drawing him closer to the cracked door of the guest bathroom. The air grew thick with humidity, carrying that same scent — vanilla and citrus, now mingled with soap and diluted further by water.
He imagined pressing her against that wet wall and fucking her raw.
The door was ajar; he nudged it even wider, the hinges giving without protest. Steam billowed out in white strands, curling around him, drawing him in.
Through the haze, he saw her — or rather her silhouette behind the white curtain — arched under the spray, one hand braced against the tile, the other — fuck — the other was working that detachable showerhead.
Judah’s cock throbbed, fully hard now, straining against his jeans. He palmed himself through the fabric — a rough squeeze that did nothing to ease the ache.
She was moaning now — soft and unrestrained. Judah watched her shadow play against the curtain, the way her body curved, hips tilting forward as she directed the pulsing water between her thighs. Her free hand slid up the wall.
Fuck. If he didn’t get out of here right now, he’d do something stupid — and Judah Beaumont didn’t do stupid.
The cross he wore on a chain under his shirt sat against his sternum — hot as sin. God was mocking him.
Another sound. Softer than the last. Her breath, maybe, or something that had started as breath and become something else.
He imagined his mouth on her, tongue working her pussy until she screamed.
He took a deep breath.
He had to get out.
His feet carried him to the kitchen while his mind was still drowning in the gutter.
Judah picked up the ledger. The keys. Took the folder and left before his self-control could leave him.