Steam clouded the bathroom, the showerhead drumming hot water that left their skin tingling.
Landon stood with his back to Tracy, slathering soap any-old-where, mind blank except for the hammering in his chest. Whether the heat came from the water or something else, he only knew it was getting worse.
Suddenly a small, hesitant hand slipped around his waist and began awkwardly working the suds across his chest.
The touch was cool, clumsy, and the moment that hand appeared in his vision Landon went rigid.
He could feel Tracy's soft, warm body press nervously against his back, the thin veil of steam doing nothing to dull the sensation.
His breathing turned heavy, a wild drumbeat rattling inside his ribs.
Water sluiced down their heads and shoulders, snaking across skin now glued together.
Landon couldn't take it any more.
The thread called reason snapped with an almost audible twang.
He spun round, sending spray across Tracy's face.
She flinched, lashes beaded with droplets, eyes wide—frightened, shy, yet blazing with the same hunger that consumed him.
Their gazes locked; nothing more needed saying.
Landon bent and claimed her parted lips.
At first Tracy stiffened, a muffled whimper in her throat, but the warm water and searing kiss melted her resistance.
Her arms slid round his neck, returning his fervor with clumsy passion.
The shower kept pouring, heedless, as the cramped, steamy cubicle became their whole world—only breath and mouths mattered.
They lost themselves so completely that neither heard the bathroom door reopen.
Rachel stood in the entrance, naked, her outline blurred by mist.
She watched Landon devour Tracy, and a sour pang rose in her chest.
Though she had wanted Tracy to bear part of the burden, seeing it was something else.
That was the man she loved, holding another woman, kissing her as if he'd never let go.
Rachel bit her lip, chest tight.
But the ache lasted only seconds. Watching Landon's almost desperate hunger, she remembered how many times he had restrained himself for her sake.
The bitterness dissolved into something more complicated—relief mixed with a weary Here it is at last.
Better out than in, she told herself, and the discomfort oddly faded, replaced by a sense of mission accomplished.
Rachel drew the damp air deep into her lungs, stepped barefoot across the chilly tiles, and walked toward the entwined silhouettes under the spray.
Droplets splashed her; she didn't flinch… Time passed; at last everything quieted.
The bedroom lamp was off, only a small wall-sconce glowing amber by the headboard.
Tracy cuddled Landon's left arm, her mind still reeling. She already regretted her earlier shyness and now understood what Rachel had meant by "formidable."
She had thought Rachel meant merely strong and tireless, not… gifted. Yet she was glad Rachel had persuaded her; until tonight she had never truly lived.
Stealing a glance, she saw Rachel looked equally blissful, still conscious, and that felt wonderful.
Landon lay flat on his back, body deliciously limp, unwilling to move.
Since arriving in this world he had always held back with Rachel; today was the first time he'd let go.
Now Tracy nestled on his left, cheek in his shoulder, breathing softly, eyes closed as if asleep.
Rachel curled on his other side like a cat that had found its home, arm draped over him, face against his bicep.
A girl on each arm? He'd only heard the phrase in crude jokes.
Yet instead of triumph he felt a dreamy, almost unreal contentment—and then absurdity.
"Damned capitalism…" he silently scolded.
(TN: yeah... damn capitalism... this is his go to excuse)
Such sweet cannonballs, such tender traps—look how fast he'd fallen.
Still, lecturing himself didn't stop him from looking down at the two girls.
Tracy's bare shoulder gleamed; Rachel's loose hair tickled his chest.
Both had figures magazine models would envy, and both trusted him completely.
A primal masculine pride swelled in his chest.
To hell with criticism—enjoy it! Let the corrosion of capitalism grow even fiercer.
Amused, he shook his head and pressed a light kiss to each forehead. Tracy murmured and burrowed closer.
"Sleep," he whispered, as much to them as to himself. "Tomorrow—well, today—we have to get up early." The clock said Friday had already begun.
He tucked them in and closed his eyes, body exhausted yet spirit oddly clear and satisfied.
At six sharp his internal clock yanked him from deep sleep.
Consciousness returned before movement; the first sensation was numbness.
Both arms felt as if boulders had rested on them all night—heavy, wooden, beyond command.
He looked down: Goodfellas—Tracy and Rachel—clamped one arm each in an iron grip.
Not content with that, each had slung a smooth leg over his thigh, cutting off circulation southbound.
Still, it was "progress": Rachel wasn't sprawled across him like an octopus this time.
He tried to wiggle his fingers; a swarm of pins-and-needles raced up his arm and he grimaced.