Something shifts in his expression. “You hated me three weeks ago.”
“I still hate you a little bit.” I fist my hand in his wet shirt, pulling him closer. “Turns out, that doesn’t stop me wanting you.”
He laughs—short, surprised—and then he’s kissing me again.
This time, there’s an edge to it. His hands slide under my wet shirt, and I gasp at the contact, his palms rough and hot against my cold skin. He swallows the sound and walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. I should feel trapped, but I don’t. I feel claimed.
Daniel pauses, hands warm and steady at my waist. “You set the pace.”
I slide my fingers into his shirt, heart pounding. “Then don’t stop.”
His eyes darken. “Okay.”
He pulls back just enough to strip the shirt over his head, and the words die in my throat.
I’ve seen hints of this body. Arms in rolled sleeves, shoulders straining against cotton. But Daniel shirtless in lantern light is a revelation. Broad chest, defined muscles, scars mapping violence across his ribs and stomach. A body that’s been used hard and survived.
He catches me staring. Something flickers in his expression—uncertainty, almost shame.
“They’re not?—”
“If you say ‘pretty,’ I’m going to kick you.” I reach out, tracing a raised line along his ribs. He shivers. “They’re proof you’re still here.”
His throat works. For a moment, he looks wrecked in a completely different way than he did during the panic attack. Then, his hands find my shirt hem.
“Your turn. Yes?”
“Yes.”
He peels the wet fabric up slowly, giving me time to change my mind. I don’t. The shirt hits the floor, and I’m standing in front of him in a plain white bra that’s definitely see-through. I should feel exposed, but the way he’s looking at me?—
“Jesus.” The word sounds punched out of him. “Look at you.”
“It’s just a cheap bra. It’s not even?—”
“Delaney.” His thumb traces my collarbone, feather-light. “Shut up.”
I shut up.
His hands find the clasp at my back. “Yes?”
I love that he’s giving me a choice every step of the way. “Yes.”
The bra falls away. Cool air hits my skin, and then his hands are cupping me, thumbs brushing over my nipples. My moan would be embarrassing if I could think clearly enough to be embarrassed.
“Sensitive.” He does it again, watching my face. “Good to know.”
“You’re—” I gasp as he rolls one nipple between his fingers. “You’re taking notes?”
“I’m a planner.” His mouth curves. “I like to be thorough.”
He backs me toward the cot. My knees hit the edge and I sit, the scratchy wool blanket rough against my bare back.
“This blanket is disgusting,” I inform him.
“I know.” He kneels in front of me, hands sliding up my thighs. “I’ll buy you silk sheets. Later.”
“Promises, promises.”
