The sound of my harsh breathing is all I can hear after I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to think about how I desperately need to change my underwear.
And how the washcloth will actually need to be used for its proper purpose.
And how I'm really, really hoping Andrew's dead fucking asleep, because if he isn't, he fucking knows what happened in here and I. Am. Mortified.
Horny Grace has already gotten what she wanted—well, to an extent—and has fled in the face of rational, calm, normal, oh-my-Goddess-what-did-we-do Grace.
Caine's warmth disappears from my back, and the wicked washcloth suddenly starts wiping down my thighs with a more clinical touch.
My body doesn't care what his intentions are, because it gets all sparky and ready for round two, but I shove down all those embarrassing thought processes before they get started, realizing I'm a little… dizzy.
