A sound rips out of me—half growl, half laugh—and I have to look away for a second like that will save me.
“Christ,” I mutter.
She laughs like she enjoys what she’s doing to me. Of course she does.
“After I shower and get some real food,” she says, still laughing. “Then we’ll see how much energy you’ve got.”
She swings her legs out of bed and stands, completely naked, and walks right past me toward the bathroom like she isn’t aware of how my eyes track every step. Every movement. Every sway of her hip, every bounce of her breasts.
At the doorway, she glances back over her shoulder.
“And you,” she says lightly, “have to do your apartment check, remember?”
“Mmm,” I rumble, because my mouth is suddenly too full of wanting her to form an intelligent sentence.
She disappears into the bathroom, and I force myself to turn away before I do something stupid—like follow her in there and forget thesafety check.
I exhale once, hard, then make myself move.
Apartment check.
Windows first. Locks. Every latch. Every possible entry point. I walk the perimeter, checking corners, closets, spaces behind doors, the places someone could wedge themselves into if they were desperate and quiet.
Then I go to my laptop and pull up the feeds—my exterior cameras on the windows and doors, the building cameras I tapped into, the street angles I looped from nearby coverage.
I scan. I zoom. I watch for patterns.
Nothing.
No shadows lingering too long. No familiar shapes. No men pretending to be casual.
Clear.
I close the laptop and head straight back toward the bathroom.
I stop in the bathroom doorway and watch her for a moment.
The shower is all glass—clear panels, no frosting, no mercy—and I silently thank whoever decided that was a good idea, because there isn’t a bad angle on her. Water sluices down her long, lean body, her full breasts tipped in hard peaks that beg for my hands. She tilts her head back into the spray, her throat arched, water tracing the line of her collarbone. She’s washed her hair, and the strands are sleek and shiny against her skin.
She hasn’t seen me yet.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, just… watching.
Elsa turns, her back to me now, and I watch her soap her body, her hands gliding over her own skin. My cock goes from interested to actively painful. My hand wants to replace hers. I want to taste her. I want to bend her over in there and—
Then she turns her head, as if she felt my stare.
A slow, seductive smile spreads across her mouth, and her voice drops into that husky register that makes my blood heat.
“You gonna just stand there and stare?”
“Maybe,” I say, and my own smile comes out slow, dangerous. “I’m enjoying the view.”
She turns fully toward me, water clinging to every curve. Unashamed. In command.
“Enjoying it enough to join me?” she asks, her eyes dark and inviting.
Her hands slide from her hair, down her throat, over her breasts, which she kneads for a moment, making herself moan. One of her hands then continues its journey down her stomach and between her legs. Her eyes are locked on mine as she slowly rubs her clit.
