Like the fiery tongue of Satan, hot water streamed through the Moen and licked my back seductively. I brushed the washcloth—heavily lathered with sage-scented soap—across my collarbone and throat.
A hand flattened on the middle of my back and grazed my flesh, finally coming to a rest on the curve of my shoulder. I turned my face toward the caramel-tinted appendage and rested my cheek against it. His lips pressed into the base of my neck, warm and tender.
"Anthony." I sighed. "We can't."
"I know," he murmured into my skin.
"This is dangerous. I could kill you."
He reached around and tugged the cloth out of my hold. As he gingerly bathed my stomach, he repeated himself. "I know."
It was such a bad idea. After the 90-minute proverbial d**k-throwing contest Nash and I had on stage,
