CHAPTER TWELVE
Six days until Christmas
When we get back to Jake’s building, the power has been cut by the force of the storm, so we can’t take the elevator.
The steps have a dim glow from emergency track lighting, but he’s also got his phone out, shining the light upwards so I can see the stairs.
I start to shiver. The rain has drenched me through despite the best efforts of the umbrella.
The building is only four stories high, but I’m slightly winded. I don’t think Jake’s heart rate has climbed a single tick. Behind me, he says conversationally, “Oh, by the way, did I ever mention? I’m a lawyer.” His voice echoes in the stairwell.
I smile in the darkness and play along. “Oh, really? That’s very interesting.”
“I’m one of the good ones.”
“Even better.”
Once we’re inside, his face is barely visible, but I can hear the smile in his voice when he continues.
“Ah, by the way—I live in a Covent Garden penthouse. I don’t spend much time there, though.
Trying to sell it, actually. Would love to give you a tour someday, but it’s having a bit of an electricity problem right now—”
Gently, I say, “Jake.”
“Mm?”
“That was a very nice redo. Thank you.”
His tone softens. “Thank you for giving me the chance to do it.”
Chilly air swirls around me as he moves closer. I shiver so hard I make a weird, involuntary noise in my throat.
“Are you good?” Jake draws me in, drifting his fingers up the sides of my neck to cup my cheeks. My chattering teeth rattle my jawbone against his hands. “Goddamnit, you’re frozen stiff.”
“P-p-paperwhite probably has power. We can go there—”
“Does Paperwhite have a bathtub?”
“What?” I’m shaking so hard now, the muscles in my neck ache. “N-no.”
“Then I have a better idea.”
Jake retrieves a flashlight from a cabinet in his kitchen—though he calls it a torch, which I find adorable—to lead me to the bathroom.
From what I can tell in the narrow beam of light, it’s ivory marble everywhere, with a freestanding pedestal tub.
A separate glass shower with a curved bench along the wall stands opposite the tub, occupying at least a quarter of the room.
Like the other parts of the flat, there’s no sign that anyone lives here. But it smells like Jake here, and it’s instantly comforting and grounding.
He switches on the tub’s faucet. Steam boils into the air in a dense cloud, and he pours in a tiny splash of oil that smells like lavender and some sharper green herb.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, disappearing into the adjacent room.
The bedless bedroom, I assume. He’s only gone for thirty seconds or so.
He hustles back into the bathroom, dropping an armful of heavy candles on the vanity.
Each one makes a loud thunk as it hits the marble.
Jake lights them quickly, filling the room with luscious soft light. Then he disappears again.
It feels like my body has given up on trying to warm itself.
Jake is back after a few seconds, carrying a plush white towel so big it could double as a throw blanket.
He hangs it over a rack built into the wall next to the tub.
When he turns to me, he looks apologetic.
“Towel warmer won’t work without the power on.
” He makes a fist and cups his other hand around it, glancing around like a fretting innkeeper.
Gesturing to the tile, he says, “Ah, the floors are heated by the boiler. You’ll feel it once you get your socks off—”
I’m frozen in place, and it’s not only because of the chill. After six years of college, then living in a Queens studio post-graduation, it’s been at least ten years since I’ve taken a bath. It’s been at least twice that long since someone ran one for me. “Jake—”
“Christ, I’m sorry—” He shoves his fingers through his wet hair. “You’re freezing, and I’m blathering on.” He backs towards the door. I’ve never seen him rattled like this.
My teeth chatter so hard, it’s difficult to speak. “It’s n-not that.”
“What is it?” Jake says. “I’ll close the door, you’ll have total privacy—”
Cold rain batters the bathroom’s skylight so hard it sounds like we’re inside a giant snare drum. The big mirror over the sink reflects the candlelight, doubling the glow through the steam-cushioned air. Flames flicker in polished chrome surfaces and the creamy shine of the floor tiles.
“It’s really nice. Being taken care of,” I say.
I’m sure a lot of people would think it’s impossible to fall for someone in only a few days. But those people have never met a person like Jake Frost.
He steps back into the room to shut off the tub faucet. On a big exhale he goes still. Sure of himself again. “Thank you for giving me the chance to do it,” he says for the second time tonight.
Scented steam clouds the air around us, fogging the skylight, glazing the chrome and glass and mirrors.
Rainwater drips from the wavy tips of his hair.
Each tiny tick hitting the tile sounds like a timer counting down.
Before he turns to leave, Jake cups my face in icy hands and presses a quick kiss against my forehead.
“In you get, then. I’ll be right outside if you need anything. ”
It feels awkward to leave my clothes in a sodden pile on the floor of a luxury penthouse bathroom, but the chill in my bones overrides whatever hang-ups I have. I’m climbing into the tub less than ten seconds after Jake closes the door behind him.
It’s so hot it hurts, but the sting is exquisite. A long, sharp inhale hisses past my teeth as I lower my body into the water, and I can’t contain a moan when I sink fully under the surface. I swear I hear Jake blow out a harsh breath somewhere beyond the door.
The tub is big enough for me to stretch my legs fully straight.
I float there for a few minutes, pondering the mundane circumstances that brought me to this truly wild moment.
Then I realize—Jake is out there in the dark, just as soaked and chilled as I was.
I didn’t see him take a towel with him, either.
“Jake?”
He doesn’t answer. Just as I open my mouth to call again, he says through the frosted glass door, “I’m here.” His voice is low. Strained.
“Are you OK?”
“Capital.” His flat, clipped delivery suggests otherwise.
Tentatively, I say, “Come get warm.”
Again, silence. For a full minute.
“Probably not a good idea,” he finally says.
“I’m getting out, then. Do you have a robe, or—”
The door clicks open. “Stay,” he says softly. He’s mostly in shadow, but the candlelight bouncing from the mirrors reflects in his eyes. He makes a very deliberate point of not looking in my direction.
“Only if you stop being a martyr and come in here to get warm, too.”
I sink deeper into the tub. Water laps against my earlobes and my chin.
He takes a step in, but he keeps a hand on the doorjamb.
A little thrill unspools inside me as his eyes flicker to the surface of the water before he swallows and glances at the ceiling.
I don’t even know if he did it voluntarily.
“You sure?” He closes the door behind him when I nod.
He walks into the bathroom like a doomed man—slow stride, heavy-lidded eyes, tight, controlled movements.
Spring-loaded. Out in the living room, he’d already stripped down to bare feet and jeans.
They’re unbuttoned and unzipped, clinging to his hips for dear life.
A kitchen tea towel is flipped over one of his shoulders, absurdly inadequate to dry him, but he’s obviously tried to.
His hair is a wild ramble atop his head.
His nipples are so hard, I know how sore they must be.
Mine ache too, but for very different reasons.
Keeping his back to me, Jake slips off the rest of his clothes.
Candlelight washes him in gold, accentuating the carved muscles alongside his spine and across his shoulders.
His ass is almost criminal—taut and rounded, with subtle indentations below his hips.
He leans into the shower to start the stream of water.
But before he steps in, he glances over his shoulder towards the tub, and at me.
Jaw clenched, he lingers there. Like a challenge.
He wants me to watch him.
Something dark and greedy stirs between my thighs. I want to be reckless. There’s always a chance reckless can be right. And if it turns out to not be—I’ll be putting 3,500 miles of ocean between us in a few weeks.
That mantra is meant to be self-soothing in my mind, but all it does is make a frantic little swirl of anxiety join the lust that’s already altering my judgment, and it’s like an accelerant on an already white-hot flame.
The shower door makes a soft snick as it slides closed.
I let my knees drop open beneath the water, careful not to disturb the surface.
The walls of the shower are glass, but they’re entirely fogged with steam now.
All I can see of Jake in the low light is the dark outline of his body.
I hear a hiss of breath pass his teeth when he steps into the hot stream.
I slide my hand down my thigh to cup the blaze between my legs, dragging the pads of two fingers across my clit. Even in the bathwater, I’m shockingly wet. My fingertips slide down, up, over. There’s a dull ache in my wrist from my fall at Somerset House, but I ignore it.
I am painfully turned on.
Pulse, pressure, rhythm.
And again.
In the shower, Jake’s shoulders slump, his chin dips to his chest. I hear a softly muttered, “Fuck.”
Again, and again, again, again—
Oh my god, what am I doing?
I pin both my hands between the hard surface of the bathtub and the cheeks of my ass.
Sheets of water smack the floor of the shower as they slide off Jake’s body, echoing loudly in the empty space.
His hands are on his head, slicking suds out of his hair.
He turns sideways, and I get my first glimpse of a truly impressive erection.
He knows I’m watching. He knows exactly what I see right now. And it turns him on.
“Jake,” I say, softly.