“All good.” His gaze drops to where the thin cotton clings to my chest. “Looks better on you anyway.” His tongue sweeps slowly across his bottom lip and the bathroom suddenly feels ten degrees hotter. When he finally steps back, the absence of his warmth is physically painful. “Well,” he says, voice rough, “hot water works.”
I nod, unable to form words.
He gestures toward the shower, where steam curls invitingly. “I’ll let you…finish.”
I pause in front of the shower, feeling his eyes on me like a physical touch. “Why are you staring?”
“Because you’re wearing my shirt and you look…” He exhales sharply. “Breathtaking.”
The word hangs between us, charged and dangerous. My nipples tighten against the thin fabric as his pupils dilate, turning his eyes almost black. I should say something cutting. Something to break this tension. Instead, I stand frozen, acutely aware of every inch where fabric meets skin, where skin could meet skin.
“You should go,” I whisper, but my body leans toward him.
“I should,” he agrees, but takes a half-step closer instead.
The steam from the shower envelops us like a cocoon, beading moisture on his shoulders, making the small bathroom feel like the only place in the universe. His hand comes up, fingers brushing against my cheek with such tender restraint that I almost whimper. The touch is barely there, like he’s giving me every opportunity to step away, but I don’t. I can’t. My body won’t listen to the rational part of my brain that’s screaming about boundaries and complications.
“Sutton,” he murmurs, my name like a prayer on his lips.
“Yes?” My voice is a breathless whisper, embarrassingly needy.
“I should really let you get back to your shower.” His eyes hold mine, and there’s something there. Hunger, restraint, and something deeper that makes my stomach flip. “But I don’t want to.”
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m certain he can hear it. “Then don’t.”
The air between us crackles with electricity. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I part them instinctively. He’s so close I can feel his breath mingling with mine, can count each individual water droplet clinging to his shoulders.
“If I kiss you right now,” he says, voice rough like gravel, “I’m not going to stop.”
The words land between us like a dropped match. My breath catches and my entire body leans toward him before I can stop it.
“Maybe I don’t want you to,” I whisper.
For a moment something dangerous flashes across his face, raw and unfiltered. His hand tightens slightly around the fabric of my shirt and his chest rises and falls once, hard, like he’s fighting something inside himself.
I see it then.
The struggle.
The want.
And something else.
Control, maybe?
His jaw flexes. “Sutton…” he exhales.
My heart stutters. “Shepherd…”
His gaze drags slowly over my face like he’s memorizing it. My mouth. My throat. The edge of his shirt brushing my bare thigh. For one suspended second I think he’s going to do it.
I think he’s going to kiss me.
Instead, he closes his eyes just for a beat. When they open again the heat is still there…but it’s locked behind something steadier. Something immovable. He drops his hand from the wall and steps back. The sudden distance feeling like I’m under the cold water all over again.
“You should finish your shower,” he says quietly.
The shift is so abrupt it takes my brain a second to catch up.
