Page 265 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
He leans into my ear. “I think I could get used to this, too.”
He spins me around, and a soft gasp escapes me as my feet slide on the wet floor. His arm is around my waist, his grip tightening and steadying me against him.
His erection presses against me, and when I glance up at him, his gaze is so intense.
Heated.
Concentrating.
His damp strands of hair fall perfectly behind his ears, slicked back with a controlled precision that adds an edge to his rugged features.
His other hand brushes up my side, an almost casual touch, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight through me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but I already know.
“I’m bathing you.” He tips up my chin, and in one fluid motion, tilts my head back into the water.
The cool spray hits my scalp, rinsing out the shampoo in a quick rush. His fingers slide into my hair, slowly dragging the shampoo to the base of my neck. Then he moves to the side of my head, repeating the motion, each sweep of his hand sending heat through me.
“Careful, I might expect this every night.”
“Lucky you, because I’m nothing if not consistent.” His arm pulls my waist closer, snug against him, until I’m melting into his torso.
“I guess I’m in good hands then.” My palms rest on his chest.
His racing heartbeat matches mine. My feet can’t find the ground anymore—it’s all him, holding me up.
His eyes are intense, unblinking, as if he’s studying something far beyond me, yet I feel the weight of his gaze in every second that ticks by.
His fingers work through my hair, easing away the water, each movement calculated and steady. My throat feels exposed, vulnerable.
The whole thing is euphoric.
I’m breathless.
I’m floating.
I’m completely consumed by him, as if everything has slowed down.
The water pours over me, cascades down the back of my neck.
The water glistens on his face, droplets dotting his scruff and accentuating the dark shadow along his jawline.
“I want to taste you.”
My lips part, an overdue invitation.
He glances down with the most delicious smile.
“Not your mouth.” His growl is possessive.
44: NOT A SANDWICH KIND OF TASTE
JADE
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MY CORE THROBS.
