Chapter Thirty-Two
Riley
I pull him along behind me, my face lit up with a smile so bright I worry about looking back at him and blinding myself from whatever reflects off the glitter that covers him from head to toe. He looks ridiculous, and exactly like the man I love. We reach the door to his apartment in the back of the clubhouse, and I shove it open, the door smacking into the wall with a loud thud.
“Bathroom first,” I say. “We need to wipe as much of that glitter off you as we can, then shower off the rest.” We reach the bathroom and I push open the door with as much vigor as before. “Strip.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
He strips, first his shirt, and I realize that him getting naked helps reduce the flood of glitter covering him to a more manageable amount. It helps in other ways, too, that have absolutely nothing to do with glitter; while he dusts himself off, I reluctantly turn away for a second to turn on the water in the shower, and when I turn back around, he’s fixing me with a heated look that not even the glitter in his beard can detract from.
“You ain’t going to make me get in there alone, are you?” He says, stepping close to me. My back’s to the shower, the steam is dampening my skin, and as I look up into his burning eyes, I realize I both don’t have a choice, and don’t want a choice.
“No…” I murmur. “No, sir.”
His hands find my waist, grip tight, and before I can even gasp, he lifts me clean off the floor. My legs wrap around him instinctively, arms looping around his neck, and then he's stepping into the shower with me still in his arms, fully clothed, the hot spray hitting us both like a revelation.
“Breaker!" I shriek, laughing despite myself as the water soaks through my shirt, plastering it to my skin. “I'm still dressed!”
“I noticed," he growls against my ear, and the vibration of his voice sends shivers cascading down my spine despite the heat of the water. “Figured we'd fix that together.”
He sets me down gently, and I watch, transfixed, as the water sluices over him, carrying rivers of glitter down his chest, his stomach, pooling at our feet like liquid starlight before swirling down the drain. His beard still sparkles, stubborn pink and gold clinging to the dark hair, and I reach up to brush my fingers through it, helping the water do its work.
“You're still so pretty,” I tease.
His eyes darken. "Keep talking, Sparrow. See what happens."
The threat sends heat pooling low in my belly, mixing with the steam rising around us. I hold his gaze as I reach for the hem of my soaked shirt, peeling it up and over my head. The wet fabric clings, fights me, but I wrestle it off and toss it over the shower door where it lands with a heavy splat.
Breaker's breath catches. His eyes track every movement as I reach behind my back, unhooking my bra, letting it fall. The water streams over my bare breasts, and I watch his jaw clench, watch his hands flex at his sides as if he's physically restraining himself.
“Riley,” he rasps. Just my name. Just that. But it sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
I shimmy out of my jeans next, which is significantly harder when they're waterlogged and clinging to my thighs like a secondskin. I almost fall twice, catching myself on his arm, and he steadies me with hands that tremble just slightly against my hips. Finally, I kick the denim free, followed by my underwear, and then we're both naked under the spray, steam curling around us like a secret.
He pulls me against him, and the sensation of skin on skin makes me gasp. He's so warm, so solid, and when his mouth finds mine, I melt into him completely. The kiss starts hungry, all tongue and moans and desperation, his hands sliding down my back to cup my ass and pull me closer. I can feel him hardening against my stomach, and the knowledge that I do this to him—that I make this dangerous, beautiful man lose control—sends a thrill racing through my veins.
I pull back just enough to breathe, my lips brushing his as I speak.
“I think I need to make sure you're properly clean," I murmur, reaching for the bar of soap on the ledge. "Can't have you walking around with glitter in... inappropriate places."
His laugh is low and rough. "Inappropriate places?"
“Mmhmm." I work the soap between my palms until it lathers, then press my hands flat against his chest. "Very inappropriate places."
I start at his shoulders, sliding my soapy palms over the hard curves of muscle, feeling them bunch and flex beneath my touch. The glitter loosens under my ministrations, swirling away in iridescent streams, but I'm not really paying attention to that anymore. I'm paying attention to the way his breath stutters when my fingers trace the ridge of his collarbone. The way his eyes go half-lidded when I drag my nails lightly down his pectorals.
“Riley." His voice is strained. A warning.
I ignore it.
My hands slide lower, over the ridges of his abs, feeling each defined muscle twitch as I pass. There's still glitter caught in the grooves, and I take my time working it free, my fingers dipping into every valley, tracing every scar, every line of ink. So many ridges, so many muscles, so many scars, so many markings of a life and danger. I've kissed most of them by now, learned their shapes with my lips and tongue, but touching them like this — methodically, reverently — feels different somehow. More intimate.
“Gotta make sure I get everything,” I whisper, and my hands drift to his hips.
He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. His hands shoot out, bracing against the tile on either side of my head, caging me in. Water cascades over us, and when I look up at him through the steam, his expression is pure, primal hunger.
“You're playing a dangerous game, Sparrow.”
