My reason disappears with it, pulse quickening as I step closer.
“Already told you,” he says in rich, velvety tones. “I remember everything… and I want more.”
His shirt hits the floor.
My breath follows it.
This isn’t unfamiliar… somehow an echo of last night. But it feels different, too. My hands find the waist of his pants. I can’t unbutton or unzip them fast enough. Until I hit the tattoo.
“Ow,” I exclaim, shaking my hand.
“Haven’t done much to let those properly heal yet,” he says, eyeing his own, dirt-covered and slightly swollen.
“Nope, we haven’t taken care of what we should have. But I plan on changing that now,” I say, with a wicked smile.
“Sounds like a good choice,” he growls, leaning in to nip at my lips. “Not used to those with you yet. Think they’ll be just as fun.”
My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into me. My tongue slides into his mouth, desperate, needy, until we both have to break, panting hard.
“This is even better sober,” I tease.
“You sure?” he asks, arching an eyebrow, relief washing over his face.
“Certain. One hundred percent, though I will miss not having fat Elvis around.”
“Then youdoremember?” His voice strains, like that admission means something to him.
I stop, locking eyes with him. “I remember saying yes, too… multiple times last night. Just like I’m saying yes now.”
That’s all that matters. That’s all he needs.
Gear and clothes fall to the old tile floor, piece by piece. Each undressing is intentional and slow, infused with longing and appreciation.
Until we stand naked, just taking each other in.
His hand settles at my waist. “You’re beautiful,” he says.
I scrunch my nose. “Round and plump… not like you.”
“Don’t want me,” he says, leaning in and claiming my mouth all over again. “I want you, Marielle. I want whatever this is between us to keep going and going.”
The air thickens, no space left for doubt. I slide my hands up his chest, feel his heat, his strength, the reality of him.
Mine.
The thought lands clean and strong. And I don’t fear it at all.
“Still think this is a bad idea?” he asks.
“The best ones usually are.”
Neither of us moves away. The water runs, steam curls around us, and whatever line was left between us vanishes.
“Where’d Scarlett come from?” he asks, pulling back. “Did the Marshals assign that to you?”
I shake my head, smiling. There’s so much we still don’t know about each other. “It’s my middle name—Marielle Scarlett Ocasta.”
“Beautiful,” he says, lips dropping to my neck. “Which one are you now?”
