My breath comes heavier.
My body hardens.
Every inch of her is too much and not enough. I shift forward, just a fraction, and then she pauses. Her head tilts slightly, like she feels it. My need.
The steam thickens between us, hot, electric, charged.
Slowly, she turns her head, her chin lifting just enough to glance over her shoulder.
Her eyes meet mine.
And neither of us move.
Chapter Twenty-Two
MARLOWE
The water pounds against my skin, the heat sinking into my muscles, loosening everything that’s wound too tight, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough. I should be exhausted. I should be wrecked. I should be thinking about the fact that my father had me come here to die, that the money is gone, that I have to get back home.
But all I can feel is him. Watching me, pulling at something deep inside my chest. Idon’t want to turn around. But I do it anyway. Slowly, carefully, I lift my chin and glance over my shoulder.
Our eye lock.
The heat is unbearable now, but it’s not from the water. It’s from him. From the way he’s looking at me. I swallow, my pulse hammering loud in my ears. I could tell him to leave. I could cover myself, break the spell, snap back into reality.
But I don’t want to. I like the way it makes me feel. It floods my veins, my skin, my core with want so sharp it feels dangerous. What I like even more is the way he makes me forget. With the rough command of his hands, he can pull me out of the chaos, silence the spiraling thoughts in my head. The firm press of his palms, the drag of his mouth, the way his tongueflicks against my skin—it all rewires me, resets me. It ruins me beautifully. Every time he touches me, the world falls away.
And for a brief, glorious moment the lies and betrayals are gone. The fucking disaster waiting outside this room? Gone. All I am is hunger and heat and trembling limbs pressed to his. I’m the gasp. The grind. The slick slide of skin against skin. Raw nerves and swollen need, melting beneath every drag of his fingertips.
And all I can think about is the next time he’ll touch me again.
I reach for the soap, my movements slow, never breaking eye contact as I lather my hands and drag them over my arms, down my stomach, over my thighs.
His nostrils flare.
Is his want for me more powerful than his hate and distrust? The thought makes something dark and wicked curl low in my core. I’m the ache, the throb, the slick press of his mouth on my mouth. My fingertips slide over wet skin, tracing the curves he can’t stop staring at.
I can practically hear him breathe harder.
He takes a single step forward. A slow, measured step, but a step closer all the same. If he comes any closer, we both know exactly where this is going.
The moment stretches.
I keep moving, my hands slow, teasing,testingthe tension stretching between us. My fingers glide over my stomach, my hips, the heat of the water making every touch slick, hypersensitive.
He stands there, eyes dark, jaw tight, his breath heavy and uneven, his fingers flexing like he’s fighting something brutal inside himself.
I want him to lose.
I let my hand drift lower, the slightest shift of my hips making my intent clear.
His eyes track every movement, his chest rising in a sharp inhale, his restraint cracking at the edges. His hand moves, like he’s about to reach for me, but he doesn’t.
I pivot, letting the water cascade over my back. I bend, working the soap down my legs, completely exposing myself to him, an undeniable invitation. I press my palm against the cool tile, tilting my head just enough to keep him in sight. My skin burns under his gaze, heat spreading in a slow, deliberate pulse between my thighs. “Damian,” I murmur, voice low, wrecked. “Make me forget.”
That’s all it takes.
He lunges into the shower. The glass door swings shut behind him, sealing us inside the heat, the steam, the sharp, unspoken hunger. I straighten, soap dropping to the tub. His hands find me, rough and sure, gripping my hips, dragging me back against his chest. His breath ishot against my ear, his body hard, unyielding, unmistakable.
