Page 160 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

Ethan pours me a glass of wine—red, the same one he’s drinking—and sets it in front of me. Our fingers brush when I pick it up and the contact sends a spark up my arm that lands in my stomach. It’s just fingers. Get a grip.

Max comes down a few minutes later, hair still wet, in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, and I have to take a drink of wine to keep from staring. The t-shirt stretches across his chest and the sweatpants sit low on his hips and I can see the V of muscle disappearing below the waistband, and my brain immediately supplies the memory of his fingers inside me, and heat floods my entire body. He crosses the kitchen and kisses the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I want to press my face into his chest and stay there.

Normal. Normal. Normal.

“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly.

“Good.” Distracted. Turned on. Falling apart.

“Dinner won’t be ready for a while,” Finn says from the stove. “Show her the house, Max. I’ll yell when it’s ready.”

Max looks at me. “Want to see the rest of the house?”

A tour. Yes. Walking. Moving. Something to do with my body that isn’t throwing myself at him. “Sure.”

He leads me out of the kitchen, and I follow him down the hallway past the living room—I don’t look at the couch, I do not look at the couch—and through a set of glass doors into the back of the house.

The gym is first. Mats, free weights, a squat rack against the far wall, a punching bag in the corner with tape on the chains. I picture Max in here, shirtless, the muscles in his back working as he hits the bag, and my mouth goes dry.

“I usually train in here in the mornings,” he says. “Finn prefers to work out after work. Ethan prefers the pool—I’ll show you that later.”

I nod. Say something. Don’t just stand here picturing him shirtless.

“This is nice,” I manage.

He shows me the sauna next—cedar-paneled, with two tiers of wide benches and room enough for ten people. Max holds the door open for me and his arm brushes mine and I feel it everywhere.

“We use it after training,” he says.

I nod and keep walking before I do something stupid.

He leads me down a corridor toward the back of the house, past a utility room and a linen closet. The corridor ends at a heavy glass door, and Max pushes it open.

The pool room opens up in front of me and I stop in the doorway. The water casts gold patterns across the ceiling. The pool is long and narrow, the water still and glowing a deep turquoise, and the air is thick and warm, wrapping around my skin. On the far wall there’s a full-length mirror that runs the entire length of the room.

“Max,” I breathe. “This is incredible.”

I see us in it. Max standing behind me, both of us reflected in the mirror. Him tall and broad in his black t-shirt, the fabric stretched across his shoulders, the veins in his forearms visible even in the low light. Me smaller, dark-haired, my cheeks flushed, my eyes too bright. I look like a woman on the edge of something.

“We built this for Ethan, originally,” Max says. “He prefers swimming to the gym. But we all use it. I prefer the river, but—” He stops. His gaze catches on my reflection and drops, slow and helpless, over my body. The hunger in his face makes my skin prickle and my stomach clench.

“Max,” I say softly, still looking at him in the mirror.

His whole body goes taut and his chest rises and falls faster.

“I have to keep talking, Sophie.” His voice is strained.

“Why?”

“Because if I stop talking, I’ll start thinking.” He swallows hard. “And if I start thinking about what I want to do to you right now, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

The words land in the pit of my stomach like a lit match and the heat spreads outward—through my chest, my thighs, settling between my legs where I’m already aching. I turn around. He’s right there and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His green eyes are dark and he’s close enough that the heat comes off his body in waves.

I step closer and put my hand flat on his chest. Under my palm, his heart is slamming. His pupils dilate at the contact and his hands stay clenched at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back from touching me.

“You feel it too,” I say softly. “That pull.”

“Sophie.” His voice is raw, wrecked. “I’ve felt it since the moment you set foot in Synthera. Since the day I kissed you against the wall in my office and nearly fucked you—something I would’ve never done before I met you.” His hand comes up and covers mine on his chest, pressing it harder against his heart, and I can feel every beat of it pounding into my palm. “Yes. I feel it too. Every second of every day. It’s getting worse and I can’t seem to make it stop.”