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up against his hard on. She froze.
    “Finally, she listens,” Graham said, more to himself than to her. “Okay, sweetheart, I’m going to sit you down.” Graham hooked the chair with his foot and dragged it back toward the spray that was soaking them both. Chair back into position, he lowered her into it. Graham was just barely able to restrain himself from squeezing that luscious handful. Man, she was stacked. And they were one hundred percent real. He’d bet the ranch on it.
    That train of thought was not helping his erection deflate. Predictably, she didn’t turn when he stepped out of the shower room. Unpredictably, she also didn’t say anything.
    “Don’t reach for the soap; I’ll bring you some.” Graham would’ve kicked himself for not thinking of grabbing her a bar of soap and some shampoo before, especially if she’d hurt herself falling, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it at that moment. First off, she’d been stripping and tossing her clothes to him like his own personal striptease. Even if he didn’t get to watch, he had a damn good imagination. And secondly, it was pretty obvious—he got his hands all over a wet, naked woman. Nothing to regret there. With only two female residents on the ranch—Allison, who was married to Jonah, and Grace, their five year old daughter—there was no action happening for him or the eight other unattached guys who called the place home. If they’d had advanced notice of the apocalypse, maybe they all would have considered attempting real relationships rather than just hook ups. Although that was debatable.
    Graham snagged a bottle of Allison’s homemade shampoo and a bar of soap out of the locker filled with Grace’s bath toys. Neither Grace nor Allison would mind. Graham headed back to the shower, trying not to stare at the girl as she wrapped her arms around herself, covering all of the goods.
    “Here.” Graham called upon what little shred of gentlemanly nature he possessed and looked away from her when he got close enough to hand off the soap. “Take it.”
    Feeling her grab the soap, Graham barely resisted the urge to turn his head. He forced himself to head back to the locker room. He thought he heard a quiet “Thanks,” but he wasn’t sure.
    “Just holler when you’re done. I’ll hand you a towel, and you can dry off.”
    This time he definitely heard the clipped, “Thank you.”
    Graham sat down on the bench and waited. And tried not to recall exactly how fucking perfect she’d felt in his arms.

    Ro could only imagine what shade of red her face must be. Without a mirror, it was hard to judge whether she was tomato red or fire engine red. Seriously. Holy. Balls . Ro tried to push aside the feeling of Conan’s hand cupping her breast. Sweet baby Jesus .
    This was bad. As in, not good. Very bad. Because while she should hate the guy who’d manhandled her and pissed her off with every word he spoke, she could only think about how good his callused palm had felt as it grazed her nipple. Which, Exhibit A, was still hard. Ro forced herself to calm down and study the bottle she held in her hand. It was clear, and the contents were a creamy white. Sort of like semen. She flipped open the cap and squeezed it into her hand and tried not to picture stroking Conan’s cock until he came in her hand. Ro froze and forcibly shoved the thought from her head. Seriously? One boob grab and she was fantasizing about giving him a hand job? Bad, Ro. Very, very bad. Maybe she really was a slut at heart. No. She just had a very active imagination.
    Mental tongue-lashing over, Ro lathered her hair. The scent of lavender infused the steam. The shampoo was better than the ridiculously expensive crap Ro bought at the ridiculously expensive salon she had frequented in Chicago. Where she’d never go again. Which was most likely out of business and probably had already been looted. Okay, that was incredibly depressing and got her mind off sex. With Conan.