Don't Look Down

seven: don't, get out

After a few more minutes, I'm told to take a shower while Seth bakes the muffins. I linger, unsure if I'm ready to leave him alone in my apartment without the threat of my watchful eye. But he'd been honorable this morning and I can't deny the appeal of a shower, especially after his comment concerning the state of my hair.

I text Marsha I'm alive and head for the bathroom. Ignoring my irritation at how much space Seth's combo bottle of body wash and shampoo claims, I make the shower quick, lathering the suds of shampoo before rinsing them out. A quick condition, followed by a hasty washing and a few swipes of my razor blade in the necessary areas and I'm finished. I emerge from the shower refreshed and awake.

It's when I notice water glistening from the toilet bowl to my left, and not only is the lid up, so is the seat. Revulsion rips through me as I yank a towel around my body and throw open the bathroom door, charging toward the kitchen.

"You left something up in the bathroom."

Seth's entire body freezes. Well, almost his entire body. His eyes move, traveling from my face, down the column of my neck, over the cotton of my barely-there towel, and along my legs. Roaming his way back, they linger at the top of my towel-right at the expanse of drenched skin stretching to cover my breasts.

Under his intense gaze, blood burns beneath my cheeks. I'm exposed. I feel his eyes on me as if it were a light caress, ghosting over my flesh. My skin prickles and goosebumps rise to the surface, same as they had Friday night.

Clearing his throat, Seth diverts his gaze, busying his hands with the task of cleaning the mess on my countertop. "And what would that be?"

Ignoring the heat lingering on my skin from the brand his eyes just marked into my skin, I lock my shoulders. "The toilet seat. And lid."

He places both hands onto the countertop and throws his head back in laughter. I watch the motions play out, noticing the delicious curve of his throat and the way his Adam's apple bobs with each deep laugh.

"It's not funny. It's disgusting."

He's still laughing, but between breaths, he says, "It's a toilet seat and you have capable hands."

"That's not the point. When you flush, water droplets are expelled into the air, contaminating everything in the bathroom. I don't know about you, but I like my toothbrush free of bacteria."

He gawks at me like I just detailed the physical and chemical properties of matter, making me fidget, causing my towel to rise up my thighs. His focus shoots to the newly revealed skin, his eyes narrowing. They're dark and hooded and my breath catches in my throat. He looks carnal. Like he's a precious second away from slamming me into the wall, digging his fingernails into the skin of my thighs as they wrap around his waist.

I hate the way he's looking at me right now. Actually, the problem is I don't hate it. I don't hate it at all.

I swallow and regain control of the situation. "Besides, this is my apartment and I'm particular about how things are kept. The toilet seat and lid stay down when they're not being used."