Sam freezes, eyes locked on mine, caught in that perfect storm between shock and unmistakable heat.
The soft morning light spills through the closet doorway, painting over the planes of his bare chest, his damp skin still glistening from the shower. And God help me, the man is a fucking masterpiece. Broad shoulders. Muscles that ripple down his chest and stomach like they were carved, not built. A fine dusting of dark hair leads down from his chest and lower, drawing my gaze down the defined lines of his torso until?—
Oh.
My.
Greek god? Understatement.
Because there he stands, unabashed, glorious, and completely unbothered by the fact that he’s hung like a fantasy I didn’t know I had until just now. Massive. Heavy. Utterly distracting.
And no, I don’t even pretend to look away. Not right away.
I stare.
Because how could I not?
Then, slowly and deliberately, I turn, his flannel clutched in my hand like a trophy, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. I step out of the closet with as much grace as I can fake, my legs somehow still working, though my brain is pure static.
I only look back once.
Okay,twice.
But who could blame me?
He hasn’t moved. But the fire in his eyes when I glance over my shoulder? It could bring the storm back.
By the time I reach the bedroom, I’m breathless, equal parts smug and shaken. My hands tremble as I slide into the flannel, buttoning it up with fingers that don’t want to stop remembering.
What I did.
What I saw.
What I want.
From the closet, I hear a low laugh. The sound of a drawer slamming. Footsteps.
My pulse roars in my ears.
He’s close. I can feel the weight of his presence pressing against the air before he even steps through the doorway.
“Careful, darlin’,” he says again, voice thick, low. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, and getting dressed might not be the next thing we do.”
I should laugh. I should tease him back. I should keep walking that tightrope we’ve been balancing on since the second I landed in this storm.
But I don’t.
I turn.
He’s there, now in boxer briefs, but just as dangerous and devastating.
I drop the pretense like I dropped his towel.
Crossing the room, I move straight to him, every step fueled by that steady thrum of heat beneath my skin.
He watches me with parted lips and dark eyes, like he’s waiting for me to flinch. To stop. To pretend this is still innocent.
But I don’t.
