Heat.
Hard muscle.
A sharp inhale at my ear.
My spine goes rigid.
Sawyer.
His chest is broad and warm against my back, skin damp, the faint scent of soap and sweat wrapping around me. I freeze, every nerve firing at once.
He steadies me automatically, hands landing at my hips.
Low-slung workout shorts.
Bare chest with a soft smatter of dark hair.
Still flushed from lifting.
My pulse thunders so loud I’m convinced he can hear it.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice rough, close enough that it brushes the shell of my ear.
I swallow. “I didn’t… I didn’t know you were there.”
“I noticed.”
He doesn’t step away.
The steam thickens between us, turning the air heavy, intimate. His hands linger a fraction too long before sliding from my hips.
“I just tucked her in,” he says, voice lower now. “Heard you two laughing.”
“She’s hilarious.”
“She likes you.” A beat. “A lot.”
The words warm something inside me that has nothing to do with the mist.
“I like her too.”
“I can tell.”
His gaze drags over me slowly, unapologetically. It’s not crude. It’s not careless.
It’s claiming.
My skin prickles under it.
He lifts his chin slightly. “I also heard what you told her.”
Oh.
Of course he did.
“About boys?” I ask lightly.
“About men not knowing how to show what they feel.”
