Right. Because I’m totally naked.
Rolling my eyes, I put my hands on my hips, give him a long look, and hold out my hand for the towel.
I expect him to laugh.
He doesn’t. His pupils dilate, and the next thing I know his arms wrap around me, wet hair and all.
Twenty-Four
Ilet out a startled sound that turns into a laugh halfway through, my hands instinctively bracing against his chest as water drips from my hair onto his shirt, onto the floor, onto everything.
“Caleb—”
“Sorry,” he says immediately, but he doesn’t let go. Not even a little.
“You’re getting soaked,” I tell him, because that feels like a safe complaint. A manageable one. Something I can say without acknowledging the way my pulse just jumped into my throat.
“So are you.”
“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”
“I know it’s not the same thing, and that’s not what I meant.” He huffs out a quiet laugh, breath warm against my temple, but he still doesn’t step back. If anything, his hands settle more firmly at my waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.
Or anchoring me.
“You were going to glare at me,” he says. “I got distracted.”
I lean back just enough to look at him, my hands sliding from his chest to his shoulders. “You got distracted,” I repeat, not trusting myself to say anything else.
“Yeah.”
“By what, exactly?”
There’s a pause, and a long look that sears across my skin. I’m half-surprised it doesn’t turn the water to steam where it hits. His gaze comes back to my face — but something’s shifted in it. Gone is the easy teasing, the lightness. What’s left is quieter, heavier, and raw in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“Ivy,” he says, like that answers everything. “
It shouldn’t, but it absolutely does.
“Can I…”
“Please,” I beg, because if he doesn’t touch me, I’m going to explode.
“Are you sure? You feel okay?”
My jaw sets, and I feel a muscle in my temple twitch. “If you don’t finish what you’ve just started?—”
His mouth meets the corners of mine, small, luxurious kisses that trail down my neck, my collarbone, until his lips meet the stiff peaks of my breasts.
“Oh,” I say, because apparently my vocabulary has left the building.
“Yeah,” he says again, softer now, then turns his attention to the other breast.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I need more.
The room is warm from the bath, the air heavy with steam, and I’m acutely aware of everything all at once — the damp chill on my skin, the heat of his hands, the way my heart is beating a little too fast for this to be anything but as good as it is.
“You’re still not giving me the towel,” I point out, because I need something to push against.
