"You're cold," he murmurs against my mouth.
"I'm freezing," I lie. I am burning up.
"Let's get you warm."
He reaches for the hem of the crochet cover-up. He lifts it, and I raise my arms, letting him pull the sodden fabric over my head. He tosses it onto the floor with a wet thwack.
I am standing in front of him in just my bikini. I should feel exposed. I should feel vulnerable. But the way he looks at me, dark, hungry, reverent, makes me feel powerful.
His eyes track over me, lingering on the curve of my waist, the swell of my breasts in the bikini top.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
He reaches out and traces a line of water down my sternum with one finger. My breath hitches.
"Your turn," I whisper.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt. My fingers are clumsy with cold and adrenaline. I fumble the top button.
Brooks groans, impatient. He brushes my hands away and rips the shirt open, buttons pinging onto the floor. He shrugs it off, letting it join my cover up on the pile of wet laundry.
Skin on skin.
He pulls me against him. The shock of his warm, bare chest against my cool skin makes me gasp. For someone so controlled, so deliberate, his heat is startling. He shudders when I touch him, a break in that restraint that tells me no one else has ever reached him like this.
"Brooks," I say, my voice trembling. "The bed."
He doesn't answer. He moves.
He sweeps me up into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist, burying my face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in.
He crosses the small room in two strides. He doesn't set me down gently, but drops me onto the mattress, right in the center.
I bounce slightly. I look to my right.
The massive stack of decorative pillows, shams, and bolsters is sitting innocently against the headboard, the ammunition I use every night to build my fortress, my safety net.
Brooks looks at the pile. He looks at me.
With a sweep of his arm, he shoves them onto the floor.
"No more walls," he says.
He climbs over me, bracing his weight on his forearms, caging me against the mattress. His eyes are dark, burning with an intensity that makes my toes curl.
"Last chance," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the mattress. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you hate me."
I look up at him. Water drips from his dark hair onto his chest, tracing the tension still visible in his shoulders. But looming over me isn't just a boss or a blackmailer; he is the manwho defended me to Penelope, the partner who held my hand while we took down a titan.
"This isn't part of the deal tonight," I say softly. I reach up, tracing the line of his jaw.
"And I don't hate you."
He closes his eyes for a second, leaning into my touch. When he opens them, whatever he was holding onto is gone.
"Good," he says.
He kisses me, and his hands move to the ties of my bikini top behind my neck. One pull, and the fabric falls away. He tosses it aside.
