Page 31 of Lady and the Butcher
I bit my lip. I couldn’t look at him, but I couldn’t not think about him.
“You’re thorough,” he said finally, his voice low, steady, carried into the shower by the acoustics of all that stone and glass.
I jolted. Soap slipped from my fingers.
Heat shot up my neck. “Do you always narrate women’s showers?”
“Only when they’re putting on a show.”
The nerve. The audacity. The absolute accuracy.
My laugh came out choked. “Maybe I like clean skin.”
“Maybe you like being watched.”
The words hit me so squarely in the chest I had to grip the tile again. I squeezed my eyes shut, water pouring down my face, trying not to drown in the truth of it.
Because he was right.
I did like it. The shame, the power shift, the way my body betrayed me by responding harder, faster, under the weight of his stare than it ever had alone.
“Atticus—” I started, but the rest of the sentence dissolved in steam.
When I finally turned, water slicking down my breasts, I found him exactly where he’d been—shoulder against the frame, arms folded, expression unreadable. His shirt clung to his biceps, fabric dark where the steam had kissed it.
He looked like he could stand there all night.
And I realized: that was the danger. Not the possibility that he’d pounce. The possibility that he wouldn’t.
That he’d let me unravel myself until I begged.
I swallowed hard and reached for the faucet, shutting off the spray. The sudden quiet made my pulse sound loud, like it had taken over the room. Drops slid down my body, pooling at my collarbone, tracing lines across my stomach.
The air felt colder without the water, goosebumps chasing the heat.
I grabbed a towel from the rack, but before I could wrap it around myself, his voice stopped me.
“Don’t.”
Just one word.
It rooted me to the tile.
My arms lowered slowly, towel dangling useless in my hand. I turned my face toward the window instead, the city blurring through the damp glass. I felt his gaze move down my back, linger on the flare of my hips, the water still dripping between my thighs.
I had never felt so naked. Not because of skin. Because of what he saw.
The towel slipped from my fingers to the floor.
The silence stretched until I couldn’t take it anymore. “What do you want from me?” My voice cracked—part defiance, part plea.
His answer was a long beat coming. Then: “Exactly this.”
I almost fell to my knees.
Because he meant it. He wanted me here, undone, exposed, vibrating with need. He wanted me to feel the tension so sharp it hurt.
He wasn’t touching me—not yet. And that was worse. That was better. That was everything.
