Just mine.
For one hot, shaking second, she gives me exactly that.
Her mouth opens. Her eyes go wide. Her body locks around mine, and I feel her fall apart with my name breaking out of her like she hates how much she means it.
I follow her down hard, face buried in her neck, my groan rough against her wet skin. I say her name when I come becauseI can’t stop it. Because my body knows before my head is ready to admit it.
Lady.
Not Nyx. Not the DJ. Not the headline.
Lady.
When it’s over, she rests her forehead against my shoulder, breathing hard while water beats down both our backs.
I hold her there. Not too tight. Just enough.
And for the first time in a long damn time, I don’t want to run from what quiet feels like after.
“You’re bad for my brand,” she whispers.
I kiss the side of her head before I can stop myself. “You don’t have a brand with me.”
Her body stills.
There it is.
Too much.
I ease her down, but she doesn’t step away. She studies me through wet lashes, and for once her face ain’t easy to read.
“My brand pays for this view,” she says.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t pretty.” I’m looking at her.
“I’m not pretty.”
“No?” I ask, reaching past her to shut off the water. “You’re dangerous.”
Her smile comes back, but softer. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t almost.”
The phone starts ringing in the bedroom.
Mine.
The sound cuts through steam and whatever stupid thing is trying to grow between us.
Lady hears the ringtone and steps back first.
That’s how I know she knows.
Saints business has a sound. Even a woman who lives in glass can recognize a blade being drawn.
I grab a towel and move into the bedroom. My phone is on the nightstand beside her gold hoop earrings, three lip glosses, and a little white dish full of rings she probably wears to make men think about her hands.
Vice’s name flashes on the screen.
