“I’m not.”
I meet his gaze, reading the hunger in his serious expression.
A mischievous thought unfurls, but I keep my expression innocent. “Brandon, would you mind helping me shower?”
His pupils dilate. Then he recovers and nods, his voice strained. “Of course. Glad to.”
He helps me to the bathroom, one arm around my waist, careful to keep the weight off my foot. When we reach the shower stall, he opens the glass door, I turn and smile sweetly.
I turn back to him, my voice soft. “Could you help me remove my shirt?”
It’s oddly endearing—the way he doesn’t question it, doesn’t hesitate, simply steps closer and does as I ask. His touch is careful, almost reverent as he peels away wet fabric. When the shirt comes off, I’m left standing before him in track pants and my purple demi bra—more comfortable than showy as it shapes my modest curves, but it has a hint of lace I’m suddenly glad for.
His gaze flickers as he takes me in, then he looks up to meet my gaze questioningly, clearly unsure where permission begins and ends.
I’m not sure either, but I’m enjoying the effect I’m having on him.
When my thumbs hitch at the waistband of my trackies, his gaze follows the movement, watching as the fabric dips just enough to bare the curve of my hip.
Then I go still.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling sweetly. “I can manage the rest.”
A beat passes.
His eyes narrow, then they gleam with understanding as he realises I was teasing him.
“Oh, you are cruel,” he murmurs, bracing himself against the shower stall. “Very cruel.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, maintaining an innocent air.
“I think you do.” His gaze drags down my face, lingering on my lips before climbing back to my eyes.
The air changes, and I’m suddenly questioning if teasing him was wise.
His lips curve in a slow, dangerous way. “Careful, Lily. I don’t have as much restraint as you think.”
“No?” I ask weakly. I’m caught somewhere between wanting him to follow me into the shower…and knowing I’m not ready.Damn it.
Brandon steps closer, our faces inches apart, his voice reverberating through me.
My heart thunders as he leans in, his gaze hooded, his warm hand cradling my cheek.
He stops short of kissing me, his lips barely grazing mine as he says, “I’ll be right outside.”
“Cruel,” I echo as he leaves, the door clicking shut.
I release a long shaky breath. I’m playing with fire.
I shower, hot water loosening tight muscles, steam making everything feel soft at the edges.
All I can think about is the look Brandon gave me. Full of pure yearning and barely suppressed control.
Pain or no pain, I’m not sure how I resisted him.
I imagine him here with me, pushing me back against the cool glass, his warmth closing in, kissing me until thought dissolves.
Eventually, I force myself to leave the shower and return to reality—clean, wrapped in fresh clothes, damp hair limp around my shoulders. Brandon has vanished somewhere in the house. I find him in the kitchen making eggs, bacon, and toast.
