Thorne Blackstone powers through the water with strong, deliberate strokes, his broad shoulders and back flexing with each movement. I should retreat.
But I can’t seem to move.
The pool lights illuminate him from below, casting his body in a blue glow that emphasizes every muscle, every line. He reaches the wall and executes a perfect flip turn, powerful legs propelling him back in the opposite direction.
Three more laps and he pulls himself up at the far end, water streaming down his body as he rises from the pool. I should look away. I don’t.
Water streams down his broad shoulders, over sculpted arms that flex as he reaches for a towel. My gaze follows a rivulet down his chest, over the ridges of his abdomen, to where it disappears into his black swim trunks riding low on his hips. That tantalizing trail of dark hair leading downward makes my mouth go dry.
He runs the towel over his face and hair, and when he lowers it, his eyes meet mine directly—like he knew I was there all along and maybe even liked me watching him. “Devil’s Ivy,” he says.
My breath catches. The nickname from that night. The exact words I'd used to describe myself to a stranger named Evander on a train platform, wind whipping around us before we tumbled into his sleeper car.
Does he replay that night too? The thought sends heat through me. Does he get off on the memory like I have—too many times to count, honestly. I should be embarrassed.
I'm not.
"No work this morning?" he continues, his tone casual but his eyes anything but. "You're usually in the library by now."
So he's been paying attention. Noticing my routines. Keeping track of me the same way I've been cataloging him.
"Needed to clear my head first." I manage to keep my voice steady. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. The lightning kept me from using the outdoor pool.”
He nods, drawing attention to the towel draped around his neck, highlighting the defined muscles of his chest. I force my eyes to stay on his face. He glances toward the glass wall where rain continues to streak down the panes, lightning flickering in the distance. The sound of the water settling and the flicker of the gas fireplace give the illusion that we're alone in our own private world, cut off from everything else.
“I can come back later.” I turn to go.
“Wait. You came to swim.” He gestures to the pool. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“I don’t want to impose.” I hesitate, weighing the awkwardness against my need for the physical release swimming provides.
There are other ways for physical release, and the man before, dickhead or not, is perfect for that activity.
Nope. Not happening.
“I’m finished.” Then, with unexpected lightness, he says, “It’s a house rule that no one should be denied a chance to swim at ungodly hours.”
The small joke surprises me. It’s the most casual he’s been since we arrived. Against my better judgment, I smile. “It’s not that early.”
“It is for a Saturday.” His lips quirk. "Most people are still asleep."
"I'm not most people."
"I've noticed." He gestures toward the pool. "Go ahead.”
“If you really don’t mind…” I move toward the bench and set down my towel.
“I don’t,” he replies.
I untie the robe, letting it slide from my shoulders. His gaze takes me in, and there’s no mistaking the flair of heat in his eyes.
His sharp intake of breath is audible even over the sound of the water. “Did you grab Madison’s swimsuit by accident?” His words are teasing, but his tone is all heat.
I cough out a laugh. Working with lawyers, who love to speak in riddles, his lack of filter is refreshing. “I packed the wrong one,” I tell him, dropping the robe on the nearby seat. And yes, it wasn’t necessary to turn all the way around to give him the full view of my ass, but I never claimed to be a good girl.
He groans, “It looks all kinds of right to me.”
I bite on the inside of my cheek to keep my smile from growing, and slide into the pool. The water is cool against my heated skin.
