And now me.
I let out a sharp breath through my nose.“Get up.Shower.You’re burning up, and you didn’t clean the damn tattoo.”
His eyes flutter halfway open, andsurprise, surprise, he drags the blanket off and swings his legs over the side without a fight.
But when he stands, his knees buckle.
“Shit.”I lunge forward and catch under his arm, his weight slamming into me like a fucking oak tree falling sideways.
He’s naked, skin as hot as a fevered furnace and damp with sweat.I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the fact that I’m half-dragging, half-hauling a muscle-sculpted serial killer across the room.
The attached bathroom is a cramped, spartan space tucked off the break room.Cement floor, drain in the middle.Rust-streaked toilet, a wall sink with a cracked mirror, and a single showerhead jutting from the wall like an afterthought.No curtain.No divider.Just cold, ugly function.
I prop the oversized ogre against the sink, one hand pressed to his chest to keep him upright as I twist the knobs.The pipes groan and spit until lukewarm water coughs out.
“I got this,” he mutters, voice rough.
“Sure you do.”I crouch to yank off my boots and peel my socks free.
When I stand and shove up my sleeves, he’s already half-gone again, eyes unfocused.
“Fuck.”I grab his shoulders and maneuver him under the spray.
The water hits his skin, and he shudders.
“If you fall, I’m leaving you on the floor.”I wedge myself between him and the wall to keep him vertical.
I work fast, running my hands over his chest, arms, down his ribs, and the fresh tattoo along his thigh.My fingers trace the lines, rinsing the grime away, careful not to rip healing skin.
This is just about cleaning him.Keeping the ink from going septic.That’s all.
Besides, I have the upper hand here.
Except the muscle beneath my palms feels devastatingly sinful and impossibly hard.His skin is too slick, sweat and water mixing, breath hitching in his throat as I move lower.
And my traitorous body reacts.
Because I’m a lowly mortal.
But I’m not gay.
So what if my dirty fantasies include men sometimes?That’s only because it’s all I know.When I close my eyes and think about sex, I see dicks.I know dicks.
Once I get my hands and mouth on Dove’s pretty pussy, I’ll have her image to preside over my filthiest imaginings.
Except last night, I fucked my fist to fantasies of them both.The three of us together.In every position.
You can’t chase me and entertain him.
She’s right.
Jag’s the enemy.Her tormentor.
Her stepbrother.
I leave the soggy bandages on his hand and reach between his legs to rinse him.Then I make another pass, chasing away lingering suds.
His chin drops to his chest, eyes cracked open.“If you clean it more than once, you’re playing with it.”
