"Among other things," I admit, the sarcasm stripped away, leaving only raw need.
He pulls back, looking at me. He looks at the wet tank top clinging to my skin, becoming translucent. He looks at the mud on his own chest.
"Bathroom," he says.
Before I can process the command, he moves. He slides his arms under me—one under my knees, one under my back—and lifts me. I’m a ragdoll in his grip. He carries me effortlessly, like weight is just a suggestion he chooses to ignore.
He kicks the bathroom door open.
The room is small, tiled in chipped white ceramic. He sets me down on the closed toilet lid but doesn't step back. He reaches into the shower stall and cranks the handle.
The pipes groan, then hiss as hot water sprays against the fiberglass. Steam begins to rise immediately, curling around us, adding moisture to air that is already saturated.
Jax turns to me. He doesn't speak. He grabs the hem of his wet jeans and shoves them down. He kicks them off. He is wearing boxer briefs that are straining to contain him. He shoves those down too.
I stare.
I analyze gears for a living. I understand fit and function.
He is magnificent. And terrifying. Thick thighs corded with muscle, a stomach ridged with tension, and...that.
He catches me staring. He doesn't cover himself. He steps closer, between my spread knees.
"Eyes up," he says, grabbing the hem of my tank top. "Unless you want to finish this right here on the porcelain."
"I..." My voice fails.
He pulls the shirt over my head and tosses it into the corner. My bra follows. Then the panties.
I sit there, naked, exposed under the harsh bathroom light. I should feel self-conscious. I have scars on my knees from childhood falls. I have the birthmark. I’m too pale.
Jax looks at me like I’ve become the holy grail.
His eyes track over every inch of skin, mapping me. He reaches out, tracing the curve of my breast with a rough, calloused finger. His touch is a brand.
"Beautiful," he murmurs.
He pulls me up.
He guides me into the spray.
The water is scalding hot. It hits my skin, shocking the nerves, washing away the cold rain and the mud. Jax steps in behind me. The stall is cramped. His chest presses against my back, a wall of heat enveloping me.
He grabs the bar of soap. He lathers his hands, creating a thick, white foam.
"Lean back," he orders, his voice a rumble in my ear.
I lean against him.
His soapy hands slide over my stomach, moving in slow, deliberate circles. He washes away the sweat, the fear. His fingers dip lower, brushing the top of my thighs, teasing the edge of my heat.
I whimper, my head falling back against his shoulder.
"Relax," he whispers. "I got you."
He moves his hands up to my breasts. He cups them, the soap making his palms slick. He teases the nipples with his thumbs until they are hard peaks, sensitive enough that the contact sends spikes of pleasure down my spine.
He turns me around.
