He tossed the empty bottle down. His eyes on me were crinkly and covered in slimy flour mixture. He still hadn't spoken. I was laughing. He was not-- he was intent.

            He grabbed me around the knees and dropped me easily over his shoulder.

            "No!" I screamed wriggling against his vice like grip on my backside. He lowered me off the counter, slipped a couple of times precariously and made me scream. I hit his pop wet back, pulling up his shirt and running my slippery, disgusting hands all over his tattoos. "Ahhhh!!!!!"

            He was walking through his house, carefully, not wanting to slip.

            He went up the stairs. I screamed and pounded.

            He kicked open a door. "You're leaving a trail of guck!"

            He kicked open another door and then I was in a walk in shower tiled and lovely, and warm and running. And his hands-- his body. He'd stripped out of his shirt and now the jeans. He was--

            I attempted to make sense of my predicament, as my blurry mind reacted to the slime running down my face and arms. Priority one: get this gross mess off me! Priority two: Rafe would have to be dealt with in a second.

            I turned. The shower was shadowy but I could see he was rinsing off in the spigot across from me. The one behind me was on also, in fact there were five or six at differing levels all squirting at me. My clothes were hampering me. I peeked at Rafe who had almost completely stripped.

            Maybe I should get out and run home!

            I leaned back and used the multiple spigots to rinse off quickly. I glanced around for shampoo or soap to make it easier, felt the cloying sticky muck sliding all over me, and especially into my clothes. I faced the spigot, streaming water into my face and he slid his hands up my side, divesting me of the slimy shirt.

            Was this really happening?

            My breath caught, and stuck.

I didn't want to hurt his feelings, but this couldn't really be happening.

            I was shaking all over. I tried to pull my shirt down, but Rafe was pressed too close. He retrieved shampoo and caught my eye as he poured some in his hands.

            "Rafe, I can't..." I wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes were too intent, his whole body tense with his seduction.

            "You can..."

            "Oh, my gosh. You aren't hearing me!" I senselessly batted his hands away.

            He planted a palm flat against the tiles above my right ear, and stared intently into my eyes. "I'm not---"

            "Hearing me!" I tried as his magnetic gaze in the dim interior filtered into my awareness. His shampoo filled fingers massaged into my hair gently. I tilted my head back by instinct, and he directed it into the water delicately, careful not to hurt as he pulled guck and goo out. Our chests were still plastered together.

            "I can hear you, Aubrey." He lowered his lips to mine and I responded, oh help me, I responded.

            Rafe's kisses were far too intoxicating-- his lips firm and confident-- pressing, pushing, demanding.

            I broke away, my head against the tiles, water running down my face. He was in the water, he pulled me to the side and pressed against me.

            "Please let me go now."

            "Are you all cleaned off?"

            I opened my eyes and he was staring into me intently, analyzing his performance from my point of view. He let me go briefly to retrieve the conditioner, my hair was far too long and thick to not use it. He squirted some into his hands, rubbed them together, and as I held my breath, he began working it through.

            "I don't know." I tried to look down but was shocked to see that my jeans were undone, my panties were showing, my bra was soaked and see-through and his chest.... oh man--

            "I was just trying to help you get cleaned off." He let the water run between us, both hands massaging my scalp to keep me there. The steamy air, the splashing-- my head was swimming.

My heart started beating out of my chest. I had to stop, he was far more experienced, and I was far too naïve. "I have to tell you something."

"Okay." he said gently, his other hand running up my bare side. I squeezed his fingers tightly together to stop him.

"I'm a virgin." I whispered against his kisses.

I felt his body stiffen. I felt the second it registered. Nothing I had said up to this point had convinced him like those words did. I closed my eyes-- breathe.

He pushed against me several more times negating my words, I think, or processing them, weighing them against the raging passion he was feeling. When I opened my eyes he was staring into them. He pushed my hair off my forehead, peering at me.

Then he stepped back. "I have clothes you can wear." He quickly exited the shower, and I further rinsed off and stripped out of the pants.

I wrapped in a towel and when I came out, he wasn't there, but clothes were laid on the counter. Sweats and a long sleeved white t-shirt. I dried off, feeling miserable, and determined and aroused and annoyed. I can only imagine what he was feeling.

I left the bathroom after combing through my hair as best I could. He was on his hands and knees in the kitchen. I rolled up the too big sleeves and joined him on the floor with a sponge. He looked up and that dazzling smile was in place.

I wanted to ask if he was mad at me, but he was hiding his expression behind his cleaning movements. We worked together, silently at first, a little wary, but soon the rapport kicked in and we were laughing now and then recalling our food fight. He broke out the Windex and Fantastic. He really was a clean freak. And I was a good cleaner. We had it mostly done, and he asked if I still wanted cookies because he did.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me out to his garage and settled me carefully into his convertible Porsche 356. He told me what it was as we exited the garage in the dark, or I wouldn't have known. I wasn't into classic cars, but apparently he was.

My hair was wet. He settled a black beanie over my curls and pulled out.

"Where?" I asked, eyeing him carefully.

"I know a bakery."

"Open at this hour?"

His smile quirked at me, and his adorable dimples showed. I felt better with each passing second. He was rebuffed, but taking it better than anybody I'd ever seen. He patted my hand as he shifted.

"When else would a bakery be open? Getting the donuts ready for all the LA cops."

That made sense. I'd never thought about it. I asked about his car and he started talking about it and the rest of his vintage car collection. He had quite a few--- and they were on display at his recording studio downtown. I was doubly impressed.

He talked a lot, until we pulled up to the back of the restaurant, and I realized it wasn't a restaurant. It was the bakery. A man came out and opened a carport type thing and Rafe pulled inside. His car would be protected here. We went in through a back door and the smells were heavenly. The bakery actually was open, and we sat at a table and were waited on. He ordered hot herbal tea, quirked his brows at me and ordered for me too. Then he ordered an eight inch chocolate chip cookie, hot--and as the waiter left, he took my hands.

"I'm sorry, again."

"You don't have to be."

"You're strong."

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"Thank you for being you."

I didn't know what to say. If he'd been raised Mormon he knew where I was coming from, it didn't need to be said. If he hadn't encountered any twenty-nine year old virgins then the facts took care of themselves. I was who I was.

He was who he was.

Maybe that's what needed to be discussed. Or maybe we weren't to that place yet.

****