Page 87 of Her Name in Red
His fingers are strong, methodical, finding knots of tension I didn't even know existed.
“You're good at this,” I admit reluctantly.
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Had practice. Three little girl cousins.”
“Is that what I am to you? A little girl you have to take care of?”
His hands pause, then slide down to grip my shoulders. When I open my eyes, his face is inches from mine, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes.
“You know damn well what you are to me,” he says, his voice low and rough. “And it's nothing so innocent as that.”
I smirk. “Yeah? What am I then?”
His thumb traces my bottom lip, leaving a trail of soap bubbles. “My nightmare. My fucking salvation.” He tilts my head back under the stream, his fingers tangled in my hair, rinsing away the suds. Water cascades down my face, washing away more than just shampoo—washing away the night, the blood, the kill. For a moment, I feel almost clean.
His eyes never leave mine as he works. When the last of the bubbles disappear down the drain, his hands still cradle my head, thumbs brushing my temples.
“Maren,” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer.
Then his mouth is on mine, desperate and demanding. Not asking but taking. His lips crush against mine with such force I stumble back against the tile wall, the cold shock of it making me gasp. He swallows the sound, pressing his body against mine, and all I feel is how hard he is all over.
When I bite his bottom lip, his groan vibrates through me as his hands slide down to grip my hips, lifting me slightly off myfeet. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back.
The shower beats down on us, hot water turning to steam that fills my lungs with each ragged breath. His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping against my pulse point. I dig my nails into his shoulders, leaving crescent moons in his skin.
“Tell me again,” I demand, my voice barely recognizable. “Tell me what I am to you.”
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, water streaming down his face. “Everything,” he says, the word punched out of him. “You're fucking everything.”
His kiss this time is different—slower, deeper, like he's trying to crawl inside me. One hand braces against the wall beside my head while the other slides between our bodies, finding me where I'm already slick and ready.
“Christ, Maren,” he breathes against my mouth. “You're going to be the death of me.”
I laugh, the sound sharp and breathless. “That a promise?”
His fingers curl inside me, making my head fall back against the tile with a thud. “Maybe we'll be the death of each other.”
“Perfect,” I gasp as he hits that spot that makes my vision blur. “Wouldn't want it any other way.”
Just as his mouth finds mine again, my stomach lets out a vicious growl that echoes off the shower walls.
Riggs pulls back, a laugh escaping him. “Jesus Christ, was that you or a grizzly bear I just heard?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, feeling heat rise to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the shower.
He presses his forehead against mine, still chuckling. “C'mon, I need to feed the beast before it devours us both.” His fingers trace a teasing pattern down my side. “We can finish this after you're properly fueled.”
I roll my eyes but don't argue. The hunger pangs twisting my stomach are impossible to ignore now that they've made themselves known.
We finish showering quickly, all business now as we rinse off the last traces of soap. I step out first, grabbing two towels from the rack and tossing one at his head. He catches it with irritating ease.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
“You love it.”
I don't dignify that with a response.
Five minutes later, I'm padding into the kitchen in a faded hockey t-shirt and towel-drying my hair. Riggs is already there, shirtless with gray sweats hanging low on his hips, opening cabinets and peering inside.
