I’ve been circling it for twenty minutes now, pretending I’m not. Tracing the lines in my head. Imagining the weight of the coat, the way it would sit across his shoulders, the way the structure would move when he does.
The problem isn’t whether I can make it. It’s whether he’d let me measure him.
I want him in something I created. I want to run measuring tape down his spine, fit fabric against the sharp cut of his body, watch him stand still while I adjust every stitch. I want him to let me. To give me that kind of access.
My heart jumps, and before I can talk myself out of it, I hop off the barstool and head for the stairs.
His bedroom door is slightly open. I pause outside the doorway, fingers curled around the handle.
“Dom?” I call softly.
No answer.
My eyes drift inside over the dark sheets and the perfectly made bed. His room smells like him—clean, masculine, with something exotic. I take one slow step in, then another. I hear the faint hiss of a shower.
I turn to walk out, but notice his ensuite door cracked open, steam spilling into the room like some kind of spell. Something in my chest throbs, tight and curious—the kind of ache that doesn’t settle until you scratch it raw.
My eyes drift toward the open doorway. The shower hisses like static, fogging the glass panels. I can see movement behind them: vague and massive, a shape made of muscle and steam.
I don’t mean to step closer, but I do. Just a few feet. Enough to make out the broad slope of his shoulders, the flex of his back, the long lines of him through the fogged glass. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making me feel like I’m five and stayed up past my bedtime.
Dominic’s facing away. One arm is at his side, the other dragging soap across his naked torso.
My breath catches when I see the water gliding down the ridges of his back, hugging the groove of his spine. Broad shoulders taper into a taut waist, water beading on his skin, sliding down…
My heart kicks when he turns slightly, and I catch a glimpse of his chest, his abs, the cut lines of his stomach flexing as he lathers.
Then his hand goes lower—down his stomach and across his navel.
My pulse stutters. The shape of him hangs between his thick thighs. His hand slides over it in one lazystroke. Nothing sexual—he’s just rinsing—but the motion makes my thighs press together.
I shouldn’t be watching. I shouldn’t be in here at all, but I can’t move. I’m locked in place, eyes wide, teeth sunk into my bottom lip.
I’ve felt him inside me, but this is seeing him completely unguarded and unaware.
His hand slides up his chest now, across the wide stretch of his pecs, fingers digging into his traps. I watch every movement, every flex, every glint of wet skin through the blur.
The air is hot in my lungs.
My body sways forward before my brain catches up. I imagine him opening that door, grabbing me by the hips, pressing me against the tile and—
I part my lips, huffing out a shallow breath. I lean slightly closer, hypnotized by the arc of his neck, the drag of his fingers over his abs. I want to see his face—what he looks like when he’s alone, when he’s not performing dominance for anyone.
He tilts his head back under the spray and suddenly stops. His hand freezes mid-motion. His head doesn’t turn, but it tilts slightly, as if he senses me.
My breath vanishes.
Shit. Shit.
I take one step back, heart pounding, as he slowly steps around the glass.
I gasp when his dark gaze finds mine, and my eyes automatically take in all of him.
Tattoos gleam across his chest and down his arms, dripping with water and menace. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs, massive and perfect, and I can’t move. I’m frozen there—red-faced and wide-eyed, like I’ve been caught in the most perverse dream of my life.
He tilts his head, water dripping from his jaw. “Enjoying the show?” His voice is low and dark as he stalks toward me.
“I— I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to—”
