She didn’t feel like she’d crossed a line.
She felt like she’d found where she belonged.
20
UnholyMorning
Thenextmorning,Clairewoke to the sound of running water and the absence of his warmth beside her. The sheet clung to her bare skin as she slipped from the bed and padded across the hardwood floor.
The bathroom door was open just enough to let the steam escape, curling like smoke around the frame. Through the fogged glass of the shower, she saw him—Jaxon. Back turned. Water cascading down sun-kissed skin, highlighting every hard line, every muscle carved like he was sculpted for sin.
She paused.
Admired.
Then let the sheet fall.
Without a word, she stepped in behind him.
Her hand slid around his waist, slow and curious, and he turned—wet hair slicked back, water trailing down his jawline. Her eyes roamed, shameless. Over the rivulets racing down his chest. The shampoo sliding in thick streams down his abs, like the water knew to follow the path of least resistance across the raised terrain of his body.
She reached up, fingers tracing one of those trails.
He didn’t say a word.
He just gripped her neck—gentle, firm—and pulled her mouth to his.
The kiss was heat and hunger. His hands found her thighs, lifted her with ease, and slammed her back against the tile. The cold bit into her spine, but the sting was nothing compared to the burn between them.
She wrapped her legs around him, locking her ankles behind his back. His body pressed fully to hers, and she moaned as the friction sent another chill rippling through her.
Water beat down on the scratches she’d left on his back, steam rising as the heat of their bodies fought against the cooling spray. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. Thewater pooled between them—dripping off his collarbone, running down their joined chests, splashing between her shoulder blades as he drove her back against the slick tile, over and over.
It was reckless. Slippery. Perfect.
Until the water turned cold.
With a grunt of frustration, Jaxon reached back and slapped the handle off. The pipes groaned as the flow stopped, but the moment didn’t.
He carried her—wet, breathless, clinging—to the bedroom.
Dropped her to the mattress. Climbed over her.
Then rolled, dragging the comforter with them until it twisted around their legs. Claire ended up on top, hair dripping, lips swollen, that wild look in her eyes that said she wasn’t done yet.
She rode him slow, deep, until Jaxon growled and flipped her again, his hand sliding under her back to yank her even closer. The louder she moaned, the harder he held on, dragging her to the edge—until they were tangled at the foot of the bed, bodies slick, sheets ruined.
He threw her legs over his shoulders, leaned in deep.
Her eyes fluttered. Her fingers clawed for something to hold.
“Again,” she whispered, breath catching on the syllables like it hurt to say anything else.
The sounds from the bedroom were unholy.
Breathless gasps, deep groans, skin against skin.
It sounded like war and worship. Like pain that begged to be felt.
