Page 85 of Knotting With A Stranger

“Pity?” His laugh holds no humor. “Trust me, pity is the last thing on my mind right now.”

Without answering further, James stands and reaches for the button of his jeans. My eyes go wide as saucers, a protest forming on my lips that never makes it out. He’s wearing boxersunderneath as he slips the denim down his legs, but that’s hardly reassuring when even those leave little to the imagination. He pulls his t-shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and my mouth goes embarrassingly dry.

James is a walking advertisement for whatever workout regimen they offer in prison. His shoulders are broad and defined, muscles shifting under skin that bears the marks of his history—a few scars here and there only add to the dangerous appeal. His chest tapers down to a narrow waist, with abs that look like they were carved from marble, ridged and firm. A trail of copper hair disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers, drawing my eye to the obvious—and intimidating—bulge against the fabric.

The muscles of his thighs flex as he moves, powerful and predatory, and I can’t help but notice the V-cut of his hip muscles pointing like an arrow to what lies beneath those boxers. Despite my best efforts, my imagination fills in the blanks, remembering what I’d glimpsed that day I caught him in the shower.

A small scar traces his jawline, barely visible against his stubbled skin. Another scar, this one larger, cuts across his right side—a story he hasn’t shared. The burn mark on his left forearm—a badge from his first cooking job—stands out against his tanned skin. It’s oddly intimate, seeing these imperfections on his otherwise perfect form.

“Like what you see?” His words break through my admiration, amusement and heat mingling in his tone.

“I’ve seen better,” I lie, averting my eyes. “Much better.”

“Liar,” he says simply, legs dangling in the water, and spreads them slightly. “Come sit on the ledge in front of me,” he says softly. The command is softened, but still a command.

I hesitate, uncertainty warring with curiosity. My body wants to obey instantly, while my brain wants to tell him to go to hell.

“I’m not going to bite,” he adds, then smirks. “Unless you ask nicely.”

“Your charm knows no bounds,” I say dryly, but I wade through the water until I’m positioned in front of him, my back to his front. I’m still submerged to my shoulders while he sits above me on the edge. The position feels vulnerable, exposed, despite the water covering me. “So, what now? You want to braid my hair and talk about boys we like?”

James pushes my wet hair to one side, exposing my neck. His fingers brush my skin, and electricity zips down my back, settling inside me like a live wire. I suppress a shudder, but not well enough.

“Jumpy?” he asks.

“Like you wouldn’t be if you were naked in a tub with a strange man looming over you,” I retort.

“Strange?” He sounds offended. “We’ve known each other for too long to be that. I’d say we’re practically family at this point.”

“That’s disturbing on multiple levels,” I mutter.

His hands land on my shoulders, and I tense before realizing he’s beginning to massage me. His thumbs press into the knots at the base of my neck, working in slow circles that send waves of relief through my body. It’s not what I expected—it’s better and somehow worse because there’s an intimacy to it that seems more dangerous than straight lust.

“Oh,” I breathe, surprised by how good it feels. His hands are strong but gentle. He works methodically, finding each point of tension and dissolving it with practiced movements.

“Better?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

I nod, not trusting my voice. The constant ache that’s been my companion since my heat began is finally, blessedly receding under his touch, though a different kind of tension is building to replace it.

“You carry a lot of stress here,” he says, working a particularly stubborn knot between my shoulder blades. “Business troubles? Or just the weight of being an independent woman in a world that wants to put you in a box?”

The insight surprises me. “Bit of both,” I admit. “Plus, the existential terror of suddenly discovering I’m an Omega and having my entire identity thrown into question. You know, the usual Tuesday stuff.”

His laugh is unexpectedly warm, vibrating through both of us. “You’re handling it better than most would.”

“Am I?”

His hands pause their magical work, resting heavily on my shoulders. “There’s nothing wrong with needing someone, Lily. Even for someone as fiercely independent as you.”

Something in his tone makes me want to cry, a kindness I wasn’t prepared for. I blink rapidly, grateful he can’t see my face.

“So,” I say when I can form words again, desperate to change the subject. “Tell me more about what you’re planning on doing with your life now that you’re out of prison. You never really mentioned it before.”

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

“I had plans to start my own business, working with Archer and running the fulfillment part of the operation.” His thumbs trace the line of my spine, sending shivers cascading outward. “I need something that will keep me out of trouble.”

“And will it?” I ask.

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