undergarments, tickling my skin. And then, abruptly, the water
stops.
Our
gazes meet, and we both break into laughter. I drop my
attention back down to the six-pack I unveiled.
I gesture to it, beaming. “What the hell is this? Does past
you work out?”
He shakes his head with an embarrassed smile, and I run a
hand over the chiseled-ness before slamming the water back
on. He shivers and pulls me even closer. I’m so full of flames,
I feel like my skin would glow in the dark.
“You should always be shirtless and in the rain,” I tell him.
His mouth comes down on mine, and I fiddle with the belt
on his jeans. “Only if you agree to the same dress code,” he
manages between kisses.
The water stops again.
He slams it back on without
breaking away and sweeps me off the ground again. He
presses me against the cold wall, and slowly I start to slide
down. He tries to steady me. I try to steady myself like a spy
in a chimney. My boots squeak against the tile, the struggle.
“We can do this,” I say between gasps.
“We can do this!” he echoes.
It’s a very tiny three-walled shower. Everything’s slick
now, and we fumble like drunken sailors. Laughing, he takes a
step back. We flail without the support of the wall. Mid-kiss,
his
back hits the tile behind him, and I yelp as we topple
slowly downward, along the wall, tile squealing, until we’re
huddled in a clump on the floor.
He hunches forward,
snickering, and I’m convulsing silently, doing my best not to
wake up the universe with the sound of my laughter.
The water stops again. I bite my lip to contain my giggles,
and shiver in the absence of warmth.
“You know what?” He narrows his eyes.
“What?”
He pushes some hair out of my face. “We’re getting a
bed,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Where will we find this mystical
bed?”
He takes my hands, helping me off the floor.
Five minutes later, we’re
running down the hallway,
shivering, hand and hand, toward the lobby. My hair sprays
water everywhere, the wetness of my bra soaks through my
shirt. My boots squish against the floor. Pilot looks like he got
pushed in the pool with his clothes on; his jeans are heavy and
waterlogged.
We stop short in front of the
teenager behind the front
desk. Freezing, I press up against Pilot’s side, still smiling like
a moron. He wears his own goofy expression.
“Hi, we’re going to need an empty room,” he says.
The young girl looks up from her magazine, eyes sweeping
over us in confusion. “Um … a private room is going to be
more expensive—”
I shiver against Pilot. He runs his hand up and down my
arm before pulling out his wallet. “We want the room.”
I swing open the door to a room full of empty beds. Pilot pulls
me inside, and I kick the door closed behind us.