Together, we strip. And by the time we’re both standing nude, I swear to God, I am so turned on my thighs must be glistening with it.
Eb’s eyes are glowing in the steamy bathroom, and I can almost feel that lusty growl of his reverberating in the very air.
“Get in the shower, Honey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Before I forget all about soap and hot water.”
I do as he says, mostly because I’m afraid if I stay still, I might combust.
The tile is warm against my back, and the water turns everything golden—my skin, the air, the sharp angles of his jaw as he steps in after me.
My breath catches when his hands find my waist.
Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just there. Grounding me.
“You smell like vanilla,” he says, almost reverently, his voice low and rough with something that feels a lot like awe.
“Probably the frosting,” I manage to say, even though I’m already dizzy from the way he’s looking at me.
Like I’m something worth savoring.
His hand curves around my hip, slow and deliberate.
“You feel sublime, Honey.”
That word hits something deep inside me—something tender I don’t always let people see. I suck in a breath and try to joke, deflect, anything.
“I—I’m too big?—”
Eb cuts me off with a look. Not a glare, not even a frown. Just a look so steady it makes my heart stop.
“Have you seen me, Marigold?” he asks softly, guiding my hand to his chest.
His body is solid heat beneath my palm. His heart thumps hard against my fingertips. His cock brushes my belly, and it’s thick and long and hard—for me.
Eb is real. Alive. Undeniably here.
“Look at us,” he says, voice like velvet and thunder.
I do. I tip my chin up and let my eyes roam, just like he wants. From the sharp line of his jaw dusted in stubble, to those piercing green eyes that seem to see everything.
Higher still, the wet mess of dark hair curling over his forehead with shocks of white on either side.
He’s tall—towering, even—wide in the shoulders, with strong arms and chest, every inch of him built like a wall I want to climb.
But it’s more than that.
It’s the way he watches me while I’m looking.
Like he’s memorizing me back.
Like he’s just as fascinated.
And while I’m busy staring, he’s doing his own inspection.
His gaze dips to where the water trickles over my breasts, down my soft belly, over the swell of my hips.
He doesn’t rush.
