The Photographer's Late-Night Laundromat Virgin

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like a swarm of drowsy insects, casting a sterile white glow across the rows of rumbling machines. At 2 a.m. the laundromat was empty except for Mia, who sat perched on a plastic chair with her knees pressed tightly together. The 22-year-old art student twisted a lock of her long chestnut hair around one finger, cheeks warm with embarrassment. Her emergency load—sheets, panties, and the white blouse she’d spilled red wine on during a disastrous gallery opening—tumbled behind the glass door in front of her. She felt exposed in her thin gray tank top and tiny sleep shorts, the kind of outfit no one was ever supposed to see her in.

The bell above the door jingled. Mia’s breath caught.

He was tall, maybe six-two, with broad shoulders that filled out a worn black leather jacket. Dark stubble shadowed a strong jaw, and his eyes—deep hazel with flecks of gold—swept the room before landing on her. Luca. She didn’t know his name yet, but the moment their gazes locked she felt it like a physical touch low in her belly. He carried a black duffel bag of laundry over one shoulder and a camera bag over the other. A photographer, she guessed. The kind who looked like he belonged in darkrooms and silk sheets, not a 24-hour washateria.

He chose the machine directly across from hers. When he bent to load it, the denim of his jeans stretched over a tight, muscular ass. Mia’s thighs clenched involuntarily.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” His voice was low, smoky, with the faintest trace of an Italian accent. He straightened and gave her a slow, appreciative smile that made her stomach flip.

“I… had an accident with a glass of merlot,” she stammered, gesturing at the spinning laundry. “These were the only clean clothes I had left.”

His gaze traveled over her—lingering on the way her nipples had tightened against the thin fabric of her tank top from the chill and, she realized with a rush of mortification, from something far more dangerous. “Lucky accident,” he murmured. “You look like a Renaissance Madonna who wandered into the wrong century. Innocent. Fucking edible.”

Mia’s mouth went dry. No one had ever spoken to her like that. She was the quiet girl in the back of the lecture hall, the one who drew nudes but had never been touched by another person. The word virgin felt branded on her forehead.

“I’m Mia,” she whispered.

“Luca.” He stepped closer, close enough that she caught the scent of cedarwood, leather, and warm male skin. “You’re blushing, Mia. Do compliments make you wet?”

Her breath hitched audibly. She should have been offended. Instead, heat pooled between her legs so fast she had to press her thighs together again. “I… I’ve never…” The confession tumbled out before she could stop it. “No one’s ever touched me. I’m still a virgin.”

Luca’s pupils dilated. The air between them crackled. “A beautiful 22-year-old virgin sitting alone in a laundromat at two in the morning, telling a stranger she’s never been touched. You have any idea what that does to a man like me?”