Page 119 of Cold Mercy

But I already have, and fuck, I’m drowning in her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters, flustered, angry at herself for reacting.

“Like what?”

“Like you forgot how to breathe.”

“I didn’t forget,” I murmur. “You just make it fucking difficult.”

God, seeing her this close hurts. It’s worse than watching her silhouette through the curtains of her living room window at 2 AM, wondering if she was thinking about me or hating me.

That gets her attention. Her head jerks up, eyes sharp and heated, and she throws the towel higher around her chest like that could put a wall between us.

“Drop it, Reed.”

Drop it. Yeah, not today, princess.

“You really shouldn’t wear that top again,” I say, stepping closer, voice low.

“Why?” she snaps. “You saw nothing, relax.”

A laugh escapes me. “I saw a hell of a lot more than nothing, princess.”

Her jaw clenches. “Don’t call me that.”

“You walked around in that thin, white, completely fucking see-through piece of nothing. You want me to pretend I didn’t enjoy the view?”

Her cheeks flush, her fingers gripping the towel tighter. She shifts her weight, flustered but fighting not to show it.

“Fuck you,” she mutters, breath uneven.

“I wish you would,” I breathe back, and her inhale breaks in half. She curses under her breath again, some messy mix of anger and want.

“I’m going to get dressed,” she snaps.

Her attention betrays her as it flicks back to my chest and then drifts lower. She bites her lip without realizing it, and the second she does, I feel something dark and hungry rip right through me.

She turns to her suitcase, towel slipping a fraction as she bends. Every movement she makes feels like it was designed to fucking torture me.

“Stop staring at me,” she says, voice tight.

“I’m trying,” I lie.

“Try harder.”

No power on earth could make me.

Before I can stop myself, I step closer, and I know she senses it because her breath hitches, even as she keeps her eyes stubbornly glued to the floor.

“You know,” I say quietly, “if you keep looking at me like you just did, I’m going to think you actually want me here.”

Her head snaps up, eyes blazing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” I murmur, “are dripping, half-naked, and glaring at me like you want to shove me onto that bed.”

She doesn’t deny it. Her lips part, then press together in a desperate attempt to swallow the reaction.

She turns away sharply and heads for the bathroom again, clutching the towel.