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"Gabriel?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't have clean clothes."

He's quiet for a moment. "Want to borrow something of mine?"

"You have extra clothes?"

"In the car. Always keep a go-bag in the trunk. Club habit." I hear him shift. "Give me two minutes."

The motel room door opens and closes. I wait in the steamy bathroom, wrapped in the towel, feeling vulnerable and grateful in equal measure.

Two minutes later, there's a gentle knock on the bathroom door.

"I'm leaving clothes outside the door," Gabriel says. "T-shirt and sweatpants. They'll be big but they're clean."

"Thank you."

I wait until I hear him move away. Then crack the door open and grab the clothes he left folded neatly on the floor.

The T-shirt is black and enormous. Hangs to mid-thigh on me. The sweatpants have a drawstring I have to tie as tight as it'll go just to keep them from falling down.

But they're soft. Clean. Smell like laundry detergent and something else, something masculine and comforting that I'm trying not to think too hard about.

I emerge from the bathroom feeling almost human again.

Gabriel is back in his spot on the bed. Still on top of the covers. Still facing the door instead of the bathroom.

"Better?" he asks without turning around.

"Much better." I pause. "Do you want to shower too? You've been in the same clothes all day."

He turns his head slightly. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I mean, you gave me your clothes. Least I can do is let you clean up."

"Okay. Thanks." He stands, grabs his go-bag from near the door. "I'll be quick."

"Take your time."

He disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut. A moment later, I hear the water start. I sit on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in his oversized clothes, and try not to think about what's happening on the other side of that door.

Try not to think about Gabriel undressing. Stepping into the shower. Water running over his skin.

Fail completely.

I've seen the way his shirts fit. Seen the muscles in his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves. Seen the powerful way he moves, like violence is always just beneath the surface waiting to be unleashed.

What does he look like underneath those clothes?

My face flushes. This is insane. Inappropriate. The man just saved me from my abusive boyfriend and here I am fantasizing about what he looks like naked.

But I can't stop.

Can't stop imagining those strong hands on my body. Can't stop wondering what it would feel like to be picked up by someone like him, actually lifted, held against a wall, those massive hands exploring every curve of my body like I'm something precious instead of something broken.

I haven't had sex in so long.