She stared.
She stared without realizing it and then when she did, she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.
It had been over a week without him and her body was at a fever pitch of desire.
He didn’t say a word, but she felt his invitation. She felt his command, and it sent thrills down her spine.
One slightly arched brow was all it took.
She swam through the water, her stride confident and easy, and before she could second-guess what she was doing, she stepped out of the pool, her eyes not leaving his face.
She saw the moment he realised what she was wearing, the way his eyes dragged down her body, taking in every curve and plane, every divot of skin, every single bit of her. He dragged his gaze over her body and she felt… naked. In the best possible way.
When she was only a step away from him, he closed the distance, pushing up from the wall and striding forwards. Their bodies touched. Electricity sparked.
“You’re back,” she said needlessly.
He didn’t respond.
She swallowed, breathing in deeply, inhaling his intoxica
ting, musky scent, her insides quivering. Her feline eyes watched him, waiting, every cell in her body stagnant, still, hungry.
The air around them seemed to be thick, frozen with time. He stared down at her, his dark eyes flecked with gold towards the centre, rimmed with dark, curling lashes.
He was big and wild, untamable. The word came to her from nowhere but it was so apt.
She swallowed, her heart racing in her chest.
His eyes dropped to her lips and they parted on a soft exhalation.
She didn’t understand the words he spoke next. Deep and guttural, and from a dialect she’d never heard, much less been taught. Was it the same he’d used when they were making love and he’d whispered in her ear, words she didn’t understand but instinctively felt?
They were magical words, deep and throaty, and they called to something buried far down in her chest.
She heard the words and stared at him, her pulse ricocheting like crazy through her body.
And then he kissed her, without preamble, as though he couldn’t resist.
It was a kiss that was born of fire and flame, a kiss that was born of absolute necessity, as though without it, all the oxygen on earth would drain away.
His hand curved around her wet head, his fingers splayed across her scalp, pulling her head back a little, angling her to allow his mouth maximum access.
She groaned, a noise that curled through her throat.
He was wearing too many clothes. Her hands found his shirt and pulled at it, but he shook his head, his eyes holding warning.
“I must shower.” There was reluctance in the words. Reluctance and frustration. She felt the proof of his desire, hard against her belly.
“Shower?” The hint of a delay wasn’t welcome. She refuted it instantly. “Shower later.”
He groaned and she felt his desperation and yes, fear, because he too was as driven by this desire as she was – as held hostage to it is as anything else in life ever had been.
“I have been riding for twenty hours,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to shower, and sleep…”
“But you came to see me,” she said pointedly, her hands reaching inside his shirt despite his protest, curving around his hips. She stroked his flesh there and then dipped them lower, into the waistband of his pants. His eyes swept closed and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“I came to shower,” he insisted, “and sleep.”