“If your fiancé tended to come sailing in windows without notice, you didn’t have extra time to run and gather up messes. She dropped everything into the hamper and stepped into a hot, steamy shower, soap with no cloying scent, just clean. Just her again. And her eyes shut while she was standing there. She’d slip down the shower wall and go to sleep there, but she was already getting stiff. She got out, delved into the medicine cabinet for a couple of Advil and chased them down with a glass of water. Clean, clear water. A miracle. She stood watching crystal liquid swirl down the drain and thought somehow she’d never asked herself how water got that clean. She splashed it up in her face, dried her Band-Aids with a towel And went and turned on her computer. Last thing. Last defining thing – on any day.-Lois Lane”

“She turned the water scalding hot and scrubbed her face until it hurt, but the eyes still looked wrong. She tore off her clothes and stepped into the shower; but it was not enough.The dirt was on the inside.”

“Watching the couple, she silently wishes she had just cleaned out her damn coffee pot.”

“Rogan caught her hand just before she got out of his reach, and tugged her slowly back toward him. His eyes met hers, and she realized just how good an actor he’d been for the last few days. Where before she saw mild interest, now she saw intensity. Need.Purpose.He put his hand on the back of her head and dipped down for the kiss she’d daydreamed.”

“Man, she loved the way Remy smelled. Male … warm. Expensive. Idly, she noticed the same scent was on her, now. It was the soap he used. She’d discovered that in the shower when she lathered up with it. The smell was borderline intoxicating on him, not so much on her. Absently, she stroked her hands up and down his sides.“Hope, you’re making it very hard for me to have a conversation here.”“Hmmm?” Tipping her head back, she glanced at him through her lashes, saw that he had a look on his face that was rapidly growing familiar.That lovely blue was heated, his lashes low over his eyes. And she found herself wanting to push up on her toes and tug his head down close enough to kiss him.”

“Water sluices away soap and grime, even some of the shame comes with it. If she were to scrub for a thousand years she would not be clean, but she is too tired to care and she has grown accustomed to scars she cannot scour away. The sweat, the alcohol, the humid salt of semen and degradation, these she can cleanse. It is enough. She is too tired to scrub harder. Too hot and too tired, always. At the end of her rinsing, she is happy to find a little water left in the bucket. She dips one ladleful and drinks it, gulping. And then in a wasteful, unrestrained gesture, she upends the bucket over her head in one glorious cathartic rush. In that moment, between the touch of the water, and the splash as it pools around her toes, she is clean.”