You clench your hands into fists, wildly observing that of all the fantasies of being near a naked Orlando, being pulled into the shower as a prank, standing bedraggled and laughed at, was not high on the list. Not even close. You turn slowly, blinking water out of your eyes, and are faced with his torso. The back of your brain gleefully takes note of his golden olive skin, dark nipples tight from the steam, his rippling stomach...Nope. Don't go there. Eyes up to meet his and force out a word, hoping he doesn't notice your voice crack.

"Where?"

He takes one of your hands, unwraps your fingers and raises them to a spot just behind his ear, rubbing them over the sharp hairs there, then lets go. You watch your hand trail down, fascinated with the strength that belies the grace of his neck, wondering at how the delicacy of his collarbone emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, and just manage to pull it back to your side as it skitters downwards towards the rise and fall of his chest. You glance up again, and see him smirking, realize what you must look like.

Huffing out a breath, you grab the razor from the tub edge and quickly clean up the offending spot, sweeping your hand perfunctorily over his scalp in search of others. Finished, you slam the razor back down and glare at him, heart beating heavily, lungs tight from lack of oxygen in the swirling mist. Your mutinous brain, which you consider giving up for adoption, sarcastically brings forth the idea to offer your services with the soap, and visions of lather, skin, and steam weaken your knees. You shake it off, reassemble the glare, and step out of the tub, drenching your head in the process.

You hear him chuckle as you flip hair out of your eyes, and snag the last towel for yourself. Looking down at the puddle forming your feet, you grit your teeth and fume. Eyeing his shadow behind the curtain, you grin suddenly and walk to the toilet. Flush it. And run, slamming the door as a yowl erupts from the shower.

You giggle as you peel off sodden clothes and scurry to dress again, hearing the squeak of the tap turning off, shower curtain ripped aside, and a muttered curse as a body stumbles behind the shut door.

When he emerges, dripping, you have just finished congratulating yourself on turning the tables. And avoiding beating yourself up yet again for not taking advantage of the situation to attack him. Composing your expression into serene interest, you watch him wiping off with his tee shirt, shorts sticking in dark spots to his legs. He narrows his eyes.

"Bitch," he growls, but you detect a smile behind his teeth.

"You deserved it," you reply sweetly. He flops down on the couch beside you, lips twitching.

"Maybe," he allows.

"Most certainly," you insist. He gives in to the grin, tosses the shirt at you. You relax, back in familiar, if frustratingly friendly, territory. At least he's clothed. Mostly. He rubs his hand gingerly over his skin.

"Razor burn?"

"Nah, it just feels...tight."

"You'll need lotion." He looks at you expectantly. You sigh, wonder if you've become some sick surrogate mother to him. "On my nightstand."

He jumps up and lopes off to get it, returning to shove the bottle into your hands and sit at your feet. Your thighs tense as his shoulders push between them, flesh warm and damp below the cuffs of your shorts. He leans his head back and gives you a grin, tripping off your heartbeat again and causing jolts of electricity to shoot straight up your legs.

You focus on keeping your hands steady as you pour a small amount into your palm. He's trying to kill you, you decide. Heart attack due to unrequited lust. Spontaneous combustion. You rub your palms together and envision emergency personnel arriving to find Orlando sitting smugly among the bits and pieces of your exploded body, saying, "I can't imagine, Sir, I'm just too hot, I guess." The ridiculous thought distracts you enough to breath again, and you apply the cream to his scalp, spreading it evenly with gentle circles. He shivers, and you feel his back relax into your thighs.

"Cold?"

"Uh-uh. 's just really sensitive," he breathes.

Pouring out more, you stroke him from crown to nape, working his temples, tracing patterns. He drops his head forward, humming in pleasure low in his throat. You slide your thumb from the base of his skull upwards, and the hum becomes a light moan of appreciation.

"Like that, hmm?" you murmur, and let out a soft laugh when he pauses at your tone. Your thumb strokes for a second time, and he melts. You do it again, thinking wickedly that perhaps there is retribution for the times he has reduced you to inarticulate pudding with a look, and touch. And it would work, too, if only you weren't so invested in giving pleasure rather than teasingly withholding it. You stop, look at your hands, and laugh, shattering the illusion of wielding power over him. They're coated with lotion, far more than his skin will absorb. Swiping the excess from his head, you consider what to do with it, chuckle again.

SMACK.

He jumps, looks down to the greasy handprints on his chest, then twists to look at you, blinking in surprise. You rise, step over him, and saunter to the kitchen to grab a beer. Popping the cap off, you lean on the doorframe to watch him. He's wiping his hands over his chest and stomach with a bewildered expression on his face, looking at the gobs on his palms, spreading the cream onto his legs and looking around for something to use other than skin. You raise the bottle to your lips and drink, and your eyes flick to the clock.

"Shit." You plunk the beer down on the coffee table. He looks up, startled, from abusing his tee shirt once again.

"What?"

"It's six o'clock, that's what. Didn't Liz call you?" Liz, your long time friend from school, had planned a birthday dinner for the three of you plus Derrick, the birthday boy, and the reservations were for seven o'clock.

"Liz?" You stop, turn, and look at him impatiently.

"Liz. Derrick. Birthday. What, did I skim some brain cells off with the hair?"

"Oh, the restaurant thing. Right. What's the problem?"

"What's the problem?" You gape at him and he just stands there. "The problem is I only have less than an hour to get ready, and she said dressy." He makes a face. "Oh, please, all you need to do is throw on a mildly unwrinkled shirt and trousers. You don't even have to do your hair." He brightens at that.

"That's right, isn't it?"

"Lovely. Get out." You shove him towards the door, mind already on the list of things to do in the next forty minutes. He snatches your beer as you push him past the table and out the door, slamming it and hearing him yell back at you.

"Right then, I'll come get you in a bit?"

You turn the shower on, grimacing at the waste of time but the need to shave is more pressing. Racing through the shower, you narrowly avoid slicing your shins several times, cursing because all your razors are slightly dulled from Orli's haircut. You idly compile a mental grocery bill for him as you towel off, thinking that this crush is having a detrimental effect on your wallet as well as your health, but in the end sigh in the pathetic knowledge that you will never risk not having him come round for things to borrow.

Precious minutes are spent dithering over clothing before you settle on a subtle but slinky number that shows off your legs. More moments swearing at your reflection as you apply makeup to emphasize your eyes. The butterflies in your stomach give away the fact that a part of you, no matter how belittled by the pragmatic you, insists on seeing this as your Big Chance. The Right Dress, Candlelight, Dinner (it conveniently ignores the two others who will be present), Moonlit Walk Home.

Smoothing your nylons and slipping into heels, you hear a knock on the door. The clock reads 6:45. Just on time, surprisingly. You take a last look in the mirror, fill your lungs with a steadying breath, and open the door.

He's there, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Devastatingly handsome in dark trousers, dress shirt, and blazer. The shirt is left open at the neck, and a leather cord and stone lay there, drawing the eye. You take a moment to readjust to his bare head after even just a short time, and his gaze wanders over you appraisingly. You are startled to hear a low whistle.

"Nice," he murmurs. You flush, and roll your eyes, turning away to lock the door.