“Yesterday,” he said. “At Darlene’s. I heard you.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
“I went over to pick up some things. Heard the shower running.” He paused and took a step toward me, leaving his shirt on the counter. “Heardyou.”
The kitchen was very small. He was very close.
“Moaning.”
My body froze while my face burned. I couldn't look at him, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
I forced my eyes up, meeting his unnervingly pale gaze. The kitchen light carved shadows across the planes of his chest, highlighting intricate tattoos that disappeared beneath his waistband — religious symbols intertwined with something darker, more ancient.
“You could have said something,” I managed.
“I could have.”
“That's—” I cast around for the right word. “That's an invasion of—”
“Yes,” he said simply. “It was.”
He moved closer. I had no place else to retreat. One tattooed arm extended past me to press against the wall, caging me without touching. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
His left hand moved up, slow, over the fabric of my tank top, thumb tracing the line of my ribs like he was reading somethingwritten there. I felt every inch of it. My hands went to his shoulders without me deciding they would and he caught them and pushed them back by my sides.
“No,” he said.
I stared at him. “What?”
“No.”
“That's—” My voice came out wrong. Breathless. I hated it. “That's not fair.”
“No,” he said for the third time, but this time agreeing with the sentiment, and went back to what he was doing. His hands moved up further, slow enough to be its own kind of torture. I stood there, against the wall, unsure what was going on. But IknewI didn’t want him to stop.
“I couldn’t fix your shower,” he said suddenly, voice quiet, eyes fixed on my chest. I kept thinking how thin the fabric was and how visible my nipples must’ve been.
“No,” I agreed, almost breathless when his fingers slipped below my tank top. Just an inch. But it was enough.
“I feel like I owe you,” he continued, tracing his fingers down my stomach. Lower. And lower. “For the missing shower head.”
When I looked up at him, I saw him grinning. Then, he got down on one knee and hooked his fingers behind the waistband of my shorts.
“Should I stop?” he asked.
I shook my head. Mumbled a reply.
“I can't hear you, Mercy,” he said, fingers pausing right at the edge of the fabric, his breath hot against my skin. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Don't stop,” I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself.
His eyes darkened. “Louder.”
“Don't stop,” I repeated, finding my voice this time.
Judah smiled — not the careful, measured smile he used at church, but something wilder, hungrier. He pulled my shorts down, slowly, exposing the curve of my hips inch by torturous inch. His eyes never left mine as the fabric slid past my thighs and pooled at my feet.
