Page 103 of Knotting With A Stranger

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” he asks suddenly, his breath teasing my ear.

I snort with surprised laughter. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he elaborates, fingers kneading the tension from my shoulders. “When you’re all grown up. What’s the dream?”

“I’m twenty-four,” I remind him, leaning back into his touch. “I’m already grown.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my back. “I’m thirty, so I need to grow up quickly if I haven’t already.”

“Oh, six years older than me,” I tease, turning to face him again. “Cradle snatcher.”

“That would be James at thirty-two,” he counters with a grin. “Or Hunter at thirty-four. I’m practically a baby compared to them.”

“Wow, big age difference,” I say, though truthfully, it hadn’t even occurred to me until now. “Yet I don’t feel any different when I’m with any of you. I’m just... smitten by everything you are.”

Something flashes in his eyes—pleasure, surprise, hope. “Does age matter?” he asks, more serious now.

“Not to me,” I admit, though a fleeting thought of Hannah’s inevitable commentary crosses my mind. My sister will definitely have something to say about me falling for three men, all significantly older. But at this moment, with warm water streaming over us and Archer’s hands tracing constellations on my skin, I can’t bring myself to care.

“Well, I’m working on opening up a bookshop,” he explains, returning to his original question. “Something small but special. First editions, rare finds, comfortable chairs where people can sit for hours, getting lost in stories.” His hands move to my hair, gently rinsing out the shampoo. “What about you? Always going to be a baker?”

“I love baking,” I say, closing my eyes as his fingers massage my scalp. “But eventually, I’d like to write a cookbook. Maybe focus on heritage recipes, the kind passed down through generations. My grandmother and mother have dozens that deserve to be preserved.”

“I’d buy that cookbook,” he murmurs, lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. “I’d buy anything you created.”

His mouth travels down my neck, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. I tilt my head, giving him better access, as my hands slide up his chest to anchor in his hair. The water beats down around us, creating a cocoon of warmth and steam that feels separate from the world beyond the shower wall.

“Archer,” I breathe, his name a question and a plea all at once.

He answers by capturing my mouth with his, the kiss deep and consuming. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance I eagerly grant. We fit together perfectly, bodies aligning as if designed for each other. His hands cup my face.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless, dizzy with desire. “We should probably actually get clean at some point,” I suggest weakly.

“Probably,” he agrees but makes no move to separate from me, instead pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone. “Eventually.”

“Seriously,” I laugh, pushing against his chest. “The hot water won’t last forever.”

With obvious reluctance, he reaches behind me to turn off the water. “You’re right. We have plenty of time for... further research.”

He grabs two fluffy towels from the nearby rack, wrapping one around my shoulders before securing the other at his waist. I move to dry myself, but he stops me with a gentle hand on my wrist.

“Let me,” he insists, his voice soft but brooking no argument.

I stand still as he uses the towel to pat my skin dry with meticulous care, starting with my shoulders and working his way down. There’s something intimate about the gesture, about allowing someone else this level of care. It’s not sexual, exactly,though my body certainly responds to his touch—it’s something deeper, more significant.

I giggle helplessly as he kneels to dry my legs, his touch ticklish against the sensitive spot behind my knee. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being thorough,” he corrects, looking up at me with a grin that makes my heart flip. “And you’re beautiful. Every inch of you deserves attention.”

By the time he’s finished, I’m blushing furiously, though not from embarrassment. No one has ever made me feel this way—like I’m precious, like I’m worth this kind of devotion.

Finally dry, we move to his bedroom to dress. I watch, unabashedly appreciative, as he pulls on a pair of worn jeans that hug his lean hips perfectly, followed by a blue-and-green checked flannel shirt that makes his amber eyes appear even more golden in contrast. With his damp hair falling across his forehead and the beginnings of stubble darkening his jaw, he looks like every fantasy I never knew I had.

“I need to grab some clothes,” I say reluctantly, wrapping the towel more securely around myself.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he replies with a wickedly slow smile, leaning against the dresser to watch me go. “The view as you leave is almost as good as the view when you stay.”

“You’re incorrigible,” I accuse but smile, nonetheless.

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