Page 15

I peel off the compression shorts and hang them on a hook. The shower valve squeals when I crank it, and the water hits me like a slap, cold at first, then hot, then perfect. I brace one palm against the wall and let it pound the back of my neck.

Cold water. Cold water. Get your head on straight.

I switch the knob. Ice needles down my spine. It does nothing.

I can still feel his breath in my ear.

Behind me, the door opens.

I don’t turn right away. Reporter, maybe. Some kid from the commission. Then I catch it, the smell, cedar and soap, before I even see him.

Zane stands in the doorway, a towel slung around his neck, nothing else.

He sees me. Stops.

Neither of us moves.

Water thunders against tile. My heart thunders louder.

“Showers are that way,” I say, nodding toward the far wall. My voice comes out rougher than I planned.

He doesn’t go that way.

He crosses the tile, bare feet slapping wet, and stops at the shower head directly across from mine. Eight feet of space and a drain between us. He hangs the towel on a hook. Turns the valve.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The water hits him, and I make the mistake of watching.

It sluices through his hair, down his neck, over the ridge of his collarbone. Droplets chase each other across his chest, catch on the hard edge of his abs, trail lower. He tips his head back and the muscles in his throat shift. I follow one bead of water down his stomach, over the sharp V of his hips.

Lower.

Look up. Look up, Rivera.

I look up.

He’s watching me watch.

His face is unreadable, chin dropped, water beading on his lashes. His eyes are pure fire.

Neither of us says a word. The showers hiss. His breath goes ragged, and so does mine. I can hear both of us over the water.

Heat coils in my belly. Thickens. I feel it before I understand it, blood rushing south, my cock stirring, swelling, and no cold dial in the world could save me now. I don’t cover up. I don’t turn. I don’t even try.

Zane’s gaze drops.

I watch it happen. He follows the line of my body down, and his breath catches hard enough to echo off the tile. His lips part. His throat works.

And then he’s hard too.

I watch it happen in real time, his cock filling, lifting, thick and flushed and impossible to deny. My mouth goes dry all over again. He doesn’t reach to hide it. He just stands there under the spray, staring at me like I’m the last drink of water in a desert.

“Gonna pretend that’s not happening?” I ask.

His eyes are wild. Desperate. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”