There are no traps. Not from me. Not from Reid. She just doesn't know that yet.
"Come here," I say, and extend my hand across the water.
She looks at my hand. Looks at me. The war behind her eyes is shorter this time.
She takes it.
I pull her toward me, gently, letting the water do most of the work. She drifts across the tub, weightless, her knees finding the seat on either side of mine as I guide her onto my lap. She settles and the moment she does, the moment her weight is on me and there is nothing between us but wet cotton and the thin fabric of my boxers, she makes a sound.
Half surprise. Half something else entirely.
Because she can feel me. There is no universe in which she cannot feel exactly what she does to me, hard and obvious and pressed against her through two layers of nothing.
"That," I say, looking up at her, "is what you do to me."
Color floods her face. Rose pink, spreading down her throat, across her collarbones, disappearing below the waterline. I want to chase it with my mouth.
Not yet.
"I just." She swallows. "I don't want to cause problems between you. Between all of you. I couldn't live with myself if I came between—"
"Oh, honey." I tuck a wet strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers graze the curve of it and she shivers. "If we get our way, you will be coming between us. Multiple times."
The pink turns red. Throat, cheeks, the tips of her ears. She opens her mouth and nothing comes out and I watch her try to decide whether to be shocked or aroused and I can see the exact moment aroused wins because her hips shift, involuntary,a tiny grinding motion against me that she immediately tries to pretend didn't happen.
It happened.
"There she is," I murmur.
I don't rush it. I bend my head and press my mouth to her collarbone, where the blush is hottest, and just breathe against her skin. Warm water, warm air, the faint salt taste of her. She goes still, only a tremor running through her that I feel in my chest because she's pressed against it.
I kiss the side of her neck. Slow. Following the color up her throat, tasting the heat of it, the specific texture of her skin under my lips. She tilts her head, giving me access, and the gesture is so trusting and so unconscious that I stop breathing for a few seconds.
I kiss her jaw. The corner of her mouth. Pause there.
"Still on best behavior," I whisper.
"I think," she says, and her voice is wrecked, a breathless, ruined version of itself, "that I'd like you to stop being on your best behavior."
"Yeah?" I pull back enough to see her face. Her eyes are dark, pupils wide, and her fingers are in my hair at the base of my skull, wet curls wrapped around her knuckles. "Tell me what you want, Maya."
She doesn't tell me. She shows me. She closes the distance and kisses me.
Not careful. Not hesitant. She kisses me like she's been thinking about it for hours. Her mouth is warm and open and her tongue meets mine and I stop thinking.
I kiss her back with everything I've been holding back. My hands find her waist, her ribs, the curve of her back through the wet t-shirt. She's grinding against me now, small rocking movements, and every one sends a pulse of heat through me that makes my vision narrow to a single point.
Her.
Her taste. Warm water and something sweet underneath it.
Her sounds, soft and muffled against my mouth.
The way her fingers tighten in my hair when I bite her lower lip, gentle, testing, and the way her hips jerk in response tells me everything I need to know about what she likes.
I pull back. She chases my mouth, eyes half-closed.
"Easy," I say, and I'm out of breath, which is not something I'm used to. "I'm not going anywhere."
