Page 37 of The Last Morgan
The shower was empty.
No Byron.
Only steam and the rush of water and the frantic beat of her heart.
It was just a fantasy.
A cruel, vivid fantasy.
“Food’s here,” Byron’s cool voice called through the door.
Lucy sagged against the wall, trembling.
Her hands shook as she reached for a towel.
She dried off as fast as she could, throwing on a loose cotton T-shirt and shorts, her skin still tingling from the phantom touch.
When she opened the door, Byron was waiting outside the bathroom, arms folded, impassive as ever.
But his eyes…
Those grey eyes raked over her like he knew.
Like he had been inside her head—and approved of everything he found there.
Lucy’s cheeks burned as she marched past him into the bedroom.
Byron sat at the small table, casual, almost lazy.
A glass of wine already poured for her.
He watched her sit.
"You look good wet," he said quietly, voice like molten sin.
Lucy choked on her wine, spluttering as heat rushed up her body.
He didn’t laugh.
He just stared at her, slow and deliberate, his gaze lingering on the damp strands of hair clinging to her neck, the soft flush of her cheeks, the way the thin cotton of her T-shirt clung to the curves of her breasts.
He made no attempt to hide it.
Lucy shifted uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her chest.
"So," she snapped, trying to kill the tension, "tell me about you."
Byron leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his silver gaze never leaving her.
"I’m security. That’s all you need to know."
His voice rolled over her, thick with unspoken promises.
Frustrated and embarrassed, Lucy shoved her chair back and stood.
"Fine. If you want to be like that—"
Before she could finish, Byron was in front of her.
