When I’m done, I sit on the edge of the bed.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
Finally the water shuts off.
My entire body goes still.
I hear movement. Fabric. The quiet sounds of her drying off.
My pulse is loud in my ears.
Then the door opens.
I look up.
And everything stops.
She stands in the doorway, wrapped in a towel.
Her hair is damp, clinging to her shoulders. Her skin flushed from the heat. Bare legs. Bare shoulders. Bare collarbones.
My brain goes blank.
My body reacts instantly.
Primitive.
My eyes lock onto her and I can’t look away.
I don’t want to look away.
Every rational thought evaporates under the sheer force of wanting her.
She doesn’t move from the doorway. She just stands there, clutching the top of the towel against her chest, her eyes dark and searching as they rake over my bare torso.
“Jake,” she whispers.
That’s it. That’s the end of my restraint.
I’m off the bed before I’ve even processed the command from my brain. I cross the floor in three strides, my hands finding her waist. The towel is damp under my palms, but her skin is scorching.
“I told you we shouldn’t,” I growl, my voice a low, ruined thing.
I crowd her back against the doorframe, pinning her there with nothing but my body and the force of my presence.
“But I can’t fucking stop,” I breathe against her ear, my lips brushing the shell of it.
She shudders in my arms, her fingers releasing the towel to fist in my hair instead.
The white terrycloth slips to the floor, pooling at her feet.
And suddenly she’s bare before me.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Really look at her.
“Fuck, Talia.” Her name breaks in my throat.
She's beautiful—small, rounded breasts with pink nipples already peaked, the curve of her waist flaring into hips that beg to be gripped. A thin strip of blonde hair leads my eyes down to where she's already glistening, wet and ready for me.
