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“Don’t worry,” she says as she adjusted the knob. “I’m turning it down. I like to see how hot it can get before getting in.”
“Whatever works for you.”
Justine steps in and I follow, sliding the door closed behind me. Hot water cascades over our bodies, washing away the remnants of last night’s outdoor performance and replacing them with something warmer, more intimate.
“Turn around,” I murmur, squeezing shampoo into my palm. My fingers work through her hair, massaging her scalp, and she leans back against me with a contented sigh.
“That feels incredible,” she breathes, her back pressed against my chest. The water runs in rivulets down our skin, and I can feel her pulse racing where my lips meet her neck.
“You feel incredible,” I tell her, my hands sliding down her body, mapping the curves I memorized just hours ago. She turns in my arms, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, and suddenly we’re kissing again, desperate and hungry despite having spent the entire night exploring each other.
“We’re supposed to be getting clean,” she gasps against my lips as my hands find her waist, pulling her closer.
“We are,” I say, lifting her easily. Her legs wrap around my waist, and she gasps as I press her back against the shower wall. “Very, very clean.”
The contrast of cool tile against her back and hot water streaming over us makes her arch into me, and when I slide inside her, we both moan at the perfect friction. This is different from last night. Urgent, almost desperate, like we can’t get enough of each other.
“God, Quinn,” she breathes, her nails digging into my shoulders as I move inside her. The steam swirls around us, creating our own private world where nothing exists except the feeling of being completely connected.
When we finally finish, both breathless and sated, she rests her forehead against mine. “If this is what mornings are going to be like, I’m never leaving this tour.”
“Good,” I say, setting her down gently but keeping my arms around her. “Because I’m never letting you go.”
We actually wash then, soaping each other’s bodies with a tenderness that somehow feels more intimate than the passion that preceded it. There’s something about taking care of each other like this, gentle and unhurried, that makes my chest tight with emotion.
By the time we’re dressed and ready to leave, the sun is lower in the sky than I’d expected. Justine looks incredible in dark jeans and a soft sweater that brings out her eyes, her damp hair falling in loose waves above her shoulders.
“Should we wear a disguise?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I rarely do,” I tell her. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Me neither.”
The car ride to Romano’s is comfortable, filled with easy conversation about the night before, our plans for the next show. The driver navigates through downtown traffic while we steal glances at each other like teenagers with a secret.
“Quinn?” Justine says as we pull up to the restaurant.
“Yeah?”
“Last night—all of it, the performance, afterward—it was perfect. I just wanted you to know that.”
I bring her hand to my lips, kissing her knuckles. “It was just the beginning.”
Romano’s has the usual mix of diners and a handful of photographers outside doing their job. Standard Tuesday night in the music business.
“Quinn! What was it like performing without power?”
“Justine! Will you do more acoustic shows?”
“Are you planning an acoustic album?”
“Where’s Nola Boone?”
Normally, I can navigate through questions easily, but the last one throws me off a bit. I stop and look toward the voice. No one repeats the question. Justine tugs on my hand, bringing me back to the here and now.
The restaurant hostess greets us with the same professional discretion she shows all her musician clientele. “Your party is already seated,” she says, leading us toward the back where both bands have claimed a large corner table.
The energy is focused and excited. Chandler’s already pulled up footage on her tablet when we sit down. “Look at this,” she says, turning the screen toward us. “Fifteen million views since last night.”