Letting go of one of her breasts, he felt around blindly behind his back until he connected with a bar of soap. He grabbed it and lathered it up, then wrapped his hand around hers. “A little tighter,” he urged, and fuck, yeah. “That’s right.”

He rocked his hips, fucking into their fists, and with the soap it was all easy and slick. He clutched her close, mouth open against her temple, urging her faster and faster until—

The feeling came all the way from his toes, drawing his balls tight before exploding forward in a rush. He might have blanked out for a second, and his knees wobbled. He threw a hand out to brace himself against the tile.

She laughed as he twitched. He was shockingly sensitive in her grip as she pumped the last of it out of him. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he stilled her wrist, shuddering as she dragged her palm over the head before letting him go. He rubbed his fingers over hers, smoothing the mess away, then caught her face in his hands.

He kissed her, soft and grateful. “What brought that on?”

“You seemed like you needed it.”

Kind of an overstatement, but he wasn’t objecting.

She turned her face away, looking down and kissing his chest. He wrapped her up in his arms and squeezed her tight.

“Can I return the favor?”

She shook her head. “Maybe tonight.”

Disappointing, but not exactly a surprise. Loosening his hold, he pressed his lips to hers. “Definitely tonight.” He paused before he let her go; considering what she’d told him about her sex life before this, he wanted to make sure. “You know you didn’t have to do that, right? Guys can’t actually die of blue balls.”

“I know.” She still wasn’t quite looking at him, but there was a sly smile spreading across her face. A new, different one from any he’d seen on her before. “I wanted to.”

“Okay.” He kissed the top of her head and pulled away.

He set down the bar of soap he’d somehow managed to hold on to through it all and perused the collection of little bottles lining the built-in shelf. When he found one that said shampoo, he picked it up and poured some into his palm.

“Didn’t you bring your own?” she asked.

“Yeah. But this isn’t for me. Turn around.”

She leveled him with a questioning look but did as he’d asked. Her hair was wet enough from the time they’d spent messing around. With gentle hands, he started working the shampoo into it. The slowly forming suds smelled sweet. Not overpowering. Just nice.

“I love your hair,” he said quietly.

She shivered.

He took his time, massaging her scalp, giving her the attention she’d given to him sexually, but in a different way. Taking care of her like this . . . it made something in his heart feel raw.

He dropped his hands and shifted to put his back to the tile. “You can have the water.”

She gave him another, different look, then snuck past him, tilting her head down into the spray.

The water made the soap cascade along her curves, soft white washes of foam caressing pale skin. His body was still ringing with satisfaction, but looking at her made him want to start things all over again.

To distract himself, he plucked his own shampoo off a different shelf. Working it into his hair with brisk efficiency, he turned his mind to other things.

“So I was thinking,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“How do you feel about going to Versailles today?” Girls tended to like all the frilly décor and dresses and things. Not that he took many women there. It was a bit of a trek, after all. But he wouldn’t mind a train ride into the country with her.

She twisted around, grabbing a little bottle of conditioner to work into her hair. “I don’t know.”

He was getting into the idea now, though. He could take her around the castle, then they could grab a nice dinner somewhere outside the city. Get some fresh air. Walk around, hand in hand, like a couple of romantics.

It’d be different. Nice.

“I think you’d like it. It’s a weekday, so the crowds won’t be too bad.”

“I just—” Her tone made him come up short.

Shampoo threatened to drip into his eyes. He wiped it away with his wrist. She sighed, rinsing the conditioner out of her hair before trading places with him again so he could scrub at his own.

His eyes were still closed, and her voice only barely rose over the pounding of the water.

“I was thinking maybe I’d head out and do my own thing today.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“I mean, I’ve only got three full days left, and I haven’t gotten nearly as much drawing done as I’d planned to. I’ve still got all these things to figure out before I go home. And I’ve been having fun with you, but . . .”

She trailed off, but he could fill in the blanks. He was a diversion. A distraction. She had other things to worry about.

The whole thing made him feel sort of hollow.

Holding his tongue, he took a little longer under the spray than he really needed. She had limited time here and a lot to do, but he had limited time, too. Limited time with her. Limited time to spend not bored and alone and spinning his wheels.

When he couldn’t pretend to have any more soap in his hair, he sighed and turned around. “Fine. No problem.”

Her expression was hopeful in a way that just squeezed the emptiness harder. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Whatever you need to do. We can hit Versailles tomorrow.” He hesitated, working to sound nonchalant. “If you have time.”

“We’ll see.” She had a mesh pouf in her hand and started working a softly scented lather over her chest.

He flexed his hands at his sides. Then gave up. Keeping his distance was fucking stupid, especially in a five-by-two-foot tub.

“Here. Let me.”

He reached out and took the sponge from her, grazing her skin as he did. She consented, flipping her hair out of the way and turning so he could soap her back. He traced the sloping lines of her body with an intensity that surprised even him. Memorizing.

“The thing is—” She cut herself off, and he paused, surprised. “With wanting to go work on some art stuff today.”

“Yeah?” He returned to sliding the sponge along her curves.

“Remember how I came here to find myself?” Her inflection held the same self-mocking lilt to it as the first time they’d met. When she’d admitted to being an artist and a dreamer, and had begun to wrap him around her finger.

So he echoed it, too, his smile wry. “It’s a romantic notion.”

“But it’s actually true.” She turned, and he let his hand drop to his side. She took the sponge from him and bent to soap her legs. When she straightened up again, determination colored her expression. “I got accepted into an MFA program.”

His brows rose toward his hairline. A master of fine arts? That was a pretty big deal. “Wow. Congratulations.”

Pride warred with demureness in her tone, making her voice pitch higher. “At a really good school, too. At Columbia. In New York, so I can keep my apartment and everything.”

“So what’s the debate?”

“I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket. So I applied for a bunch of jobs, too. And I got offered one of them right before I left.” She hesitated before adding, “At an ad agency. Entry level, but it would pay the bills.”

“Well, that’s great, too.” Insane that she would even be considering it when she had a chance to pursue what she obviously loved, but great. He guessed.

She pointed toward the water, and he shifted, making room for her to trade places with him. As she stepped beneath the spray, the lather twisted and ran, sliding in foaming sheets along her form, and his throat went dry.

She rinsed herself off in a way that must have been designed to torture him, then hung up her pouf and sluiced the water from her eyes. “I can’t do both, is all. I have to decide.”

“Is it really that much of a decision?”

“Yeah. Just the biggest one ever.” She twisted her knuckles. “So this whole trip—it was supposed to be about finding inspiration, or discovering myself, or whatever. But it’s about deciding some things, too.”