Page 36 of Burn for Me

He’s nothing but death walking in the flesh, but I can't help but wonder what it’d be like to let him hold my life in his hands. I’m sure he’d be rough, ruining every inch of skin that I work so hard to maintain. My hair wouldn’t be perfect like usual with his hand wrapped in it, and my mascara would streak my cheeks from whatever control he let go of.

I gasp and reach for the edge of the tub, knocking the bottles off the edge as I plunge a finger into my cunt. He’d destroy me inside and out, but I'd let him. I'd gladly crawl into the grave he dug for me just to feel his teeth sink into my skin while my hands memorized each scar on his body. My thighs tremble, sloshing the water as I dig my teeth into my bottom lip to bite back the cry that threatens to rush from my throat.

“Jasmine?” The voice comes but is a muted noise behind my heavy breathing. A knock on the door punches me back into my senses as a quiet whimper escapes my throat.

“Little devil?” The nickname comes louder, and I scramble to pick up the bottles that fell over the side with shaking hands.

Oh god, no, I didn't just–to…

The door handle jiggles with more force than I’m sure is necessary. I’m swallowing down air, trying to compose my voice and push what just happened to the farthest part of the back of my head.

“I swear if you don’t fucking answer, I’ll break it down!” Sam booms just as the door suddenly buckles with a thump from a force.

No. No. No.

“What?!” I snap more aggressively than I intend. My throat feels dry as I glance at my fingers, noticing how wrinkled they've become from my time in the water.

There’s irritable grumbling from the other side, but it fades as he walks away.

It will be impossible to keep my composure with this side of him constantly on display—the doting, touchy, concerned husband—but I need to focus. I can’t let my foolish attraction to him distract me right now. First, I need to complete my mission, prove myself, and then try to correct some of my mistakes. Only after that will I attempt to bring us back to our almost natural relationship, but that’s if I’m still accepted.

I finish my bath and put on the robe, hoping to blame the deep red flush on my cheeks on the room's temperature. However, as soon as I step into the room, I instantly spot him perched in a chair in the corner, his white button-up undone to his abdomen, revealing tattoos stretching from his shoulder to his chest and thick scars adorning his torso. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he holds a glass of bourbon in one hand, resting it on one of his spread knees. I assume he is checking the cameras at base to calm himself on his phone in his other hand, or perhaps he has already accessed the hotel's security feeds.

I can’t think clearly because all I can focus on is how much I want to walk over to him, push my hands under the fabric of his shirt, and glide my fingers over every inch until he—

“Do you want the bed? I can take the couch.” I say, turning my attention to the plush mattress and crossing my arms over my chest to keep my robe tightly closed.

“Lay down and rest up before dinner,” he replies, his gaze fixed on the phone as he raises the glass to his lips, not bothering to spare me a glance.

Usually, I’d be irritated by the lack of acknowledgment, but given recent events, I don’t hesitate to curl under the thick duvet and turn my back to him. I’m waiting for him to call me out for my bath activities or question me about my day, but the only sounds filling the room are the thump of his shoes against the floor and his soft breathing. Suddenly, my notepad falls in front of my face as his body heat hovers over me, followed by a pen.

“Just pretend I’m not even here,” he murmurs, stepping away until the chair creaks with his body weight settling back in it. I’m tempted to make a witty remark about how easy that would be, considering I don’t know when he’s watching me sleep. But instead, I find myself lost in the words I’m scribbling, using the light from his phone to illuminate the pad. Sometimes, I wonder if he realizes that he knows me better than I allow myself to believe because there’s no way I could sleep without getting a few of these intrusive thoughts out.

When I finally feel at ease, I place the pad under my pillow and turn onto my stomach to watch him lose himself in his work.

I could get used to this.

I squint against the sun shining through the window, silently cursing the entity that has graced me with this annoying light. Not long ago, I woke up to the sound of the shower running andthe blacked-out curtains thrown wide open, but I didn't want to move to get ready. The bed is warm, comfortable, and safe.

The shuffling in the bathroom urges me to sit up and tuck my notepad into the nightstand, where all my other journals are placed neatly. Panic begins to claw through my chest, and I'm already searching for explanations I don't have.I know I didn't put them there.

The bathroom door opens, and I whip my head in that direction. If Sam notices me staring, he doesn’t show it. A towel is tightly wrapped around his waist, straining against the width of his thighs. Water streams down his back, dipping and curving with each flex of his muscles as he dries his hair with a spare cloth.

My heart races, so I rush out of bed, grab my clothes, and clutch my robe to keep it closed. I refuse to indulge the sinful thoughts he seems to plant in my head.

“What am I supposed to wear?” he mumbles so softly I almost miss the words. I turn my head, raising an eyebrow in question.

He returns the expression as if he isn't almost entirely naked in front of me.

“Figure it out,” I shrug, but as I turn to rush into the bathroom, his hand wraps around my wrist, pulling me back into his space. His hair sticks to his head, water beading down his brow, and those dark chocolate eyes flick between mine.

“Be a good wife and help me," he murmurs, the sound coming from deep in his chest.

You can’t say things like that.

I should probably voice my thoughts and tell him how his words affect me—the hope they ignite and how I ache to hear them over and over but in a hoarse moan, whispered against my ear instead.

“We’renotmarried, Sam,” I reply, trying to sound firm, but my voice wavers. He steps closer, and the scent of his soap fills my nostrils, making them tingle with its spicy aroma.

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