Page 83 of Rupture

His heart pounded as he stared at the door, suddenly all too aware of the steam clinging to his bare skin.

He opened the door.

Rose stood in the gently lit hallway. She didn’t speak, but her gaze dropped, trailing over his bare torso with an intensity that made his muscles tense involuntarily.

Finn stepped back, his invitation wordless.

She moved past him into the room, her scent trailing behind her—something faintly floral. The door clicked shut, sealing them in, the soft finality of it making his pulse slam harder.

She turned to face him. Blood seared his veins, hot andurgent. His cock hardened instantly. He’d imagined this moment a hundred times. Wanted it. Craved it.

Now she was here. With him.Alone.

His restraint hung by a thread as he reached for her, fingertips skimming down the length of her arms, featherlight.

“You should rest,” he murmured, his voice rough.

She held his gaze, dark eyes dilated. “I don’t want to rest.” Her lips parted slightly, her breath shallow. “I want you.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He needed to be sure.

“Rose—”

“I’m sure, Finn.”

She turned, following the lazy drift of steam curling from the bathroom. He trailed after her, every step wired with need.

She paused at the threshold, taking in the space, the large tub steaming with scented water. Then she turned, one dark brow arched in silent challenge.

His chest constricted.God, she was exquisite.

Her hands went to the hem of her shirt. In one smooth motion, she pulled it over her head, the fabric whispering against her skin. Then her cargo pants, unfastened and pushed past her hips.

She stood before him in pale gray lace—barely anything at all.

Evening light slanted through the narrow window, gilding her skin in liquid gold. Shadows and highlights played over her curves, over the smooth stretch of her stomach, the delicate slope of her collarbone.

Finn fought for breath.For control.

He moved toward her, the space between them vanishing, his fingers finding the warmth of her skin. She turnedslightly as he slid his hands over her upper arms, then lower, mapping muscle and softness. He bent his head, pressing his lips to the curve of her shoulder, her neck—careful of the wound at the back of her head.

For a moment, rage coiled inside him.She’d been hurt.

The memory of it ripped through him like fire, a bolt of fury and helplessness. He wanted to protect her. Keep her safe. Keep her close to him.

His fingers traced the length of her spine, and she inhaled sharply. A tremor rolling through her.

Strong. Delicate. Warrior and softness wrapped into one. His beauty. His survivor. The woman who had risked her life to trap the damn nanobots.

He reached for the clasp of her bra, unhooked it, let it slide down her arms, and dropped it to the floor.

He ran his nose down the slope of her neck, across her shoulder, dragging in the scent of her. She exhaled a breathy gasp, her body arching toward him, then stepped away.

His hands made fists.

She dropped her panties. A slow, torturous slide of lace.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

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