“Go ahead,” I say, settling onto his handmade rocker. “I’ll just admire your handiwork.”
After he disappears down the hallway, the sound of the shower drifts to my ears, and my traitorous mind immediately conjuresimages I have no business picturing. How far do those tattoos go—across his chest, down his arms, maybe further? The thought makes my skin prickle.
I shift restlessly in the rocking chair, trying to ignore the building heat building between my thighs. The sound of water running just down the hall is doing things to my imagination that should probably worry me more than they do.
I take a steadying breath and force myself to focus on the room around me instead of the naked orc currently standing under hot water not twenty feet away. But even examining his furniture doesn’t help, because every beautiful piece reminds me of his hands—those large, careful hands that carved these intricate details. For a moment, my skin flushes hot as I imagine those massive hands mapping every curve of my body.
The shower shuts off, and I hear footsteps in the hallway.
“I forgot to grab clean clothes,” he calls. “Just give me a second to—”
The words die as he appears in the living room doorway, and every coherent thought I’ve ever had abandons ship.
He’s wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist, and I forget how to breathe. Beads of water trace over dark tattoos, and my lawyer brain absurdly catalogs each line and plane like evidence in a case I’m already losing.
“Sorry,” he says, though the darkness in his gaze and the ragged edge of his breathing tell a different story.
“Don’t apologize,” I manage, my voice coming out husky. “Not for looking likethat.”
He notices my stare, and something shifts in his expression. The uncertainty fades, replaced by an awareness that mirrors my own. “I should get dressed.”
“You should,” I agree, but neither of us moves. If anything, he stands a bit straighter, which makes his shoulders look even broader, and makes the towel slip a fraction lower on his hips.
The air between us feels charged, heavy with possibility and the weight of everything we haven’t said. I can see the rise and fall of his chest, notice the way his hands tighten slightly on the towel at his waist. Notice how the water droplets catch the light as they slide down his chest, and how the tattoos seem to move with the play of muscle beneath his skin.
“Jordan,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that makes my pulse quicken.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to get dressed now.”
“Good idea.”
“Unless you don’t want me to.” His gaze holds mine, and it’s as though the air turns solid.
My pulse spikes. The moment hums with a possibility I shouldn’t lean into, but the image of those hands on my bare skin instead of clutching a towel nearly unravels me.
The words hang between us—a question and an invitation and a challenge all at once. I look at him—this gentle, talented, handsome male who creates beauty and saves lives—and feel something settle into place inside my chest.
“We should probably eat dinner first,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
His smile is slow and heated. “Probably. We both missed lunch.”
“Definitely.”
“I’ll be right back.”
When he disappears down the hallway, I slump back into the chair and try to remember how to breathe normally. This is not how I expected this evening to go. Months ago, I was certain I never wanted another relationship. Two days ago, I’d never heard of Forge Ironwood. Now I’m sitting in his apartment wanting things I thought I’d left behind forever.
He returns wearing jeans and a soft gray Henley that clings to his frame in ways that don’t help my blood pressure. But he’s composed himself, and the moment of charged tension has passed into something more manageable.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much,” I lie.
“Good. I was thinking of pasta with mushroom sauce. Nothing fancy.”
“Everything you do is fancy,” I say without thinking, then flush at how that simple sentence gave so much of me away.
