Page 162 of Wicked Savage

“What are you doing?” I gasp, trying to shield myself. But it’s no use.

“Conserving water.” He smirks, casually slipping off his sweats and throwing his shirt over his head as I look away.

My face flushes as he pushes me aside playfully, letting the water pour down his glorious, tanned back. It’s impossible to ignore the taut lines of his body, the muscles shifting as he reaches up, letting the spray hit his face.

“Don’t worry,” he says from over his shoulder with a twinge of amusement. “I’m not even looking at you.”

But I’m definitely looking atyou.

Heat rushes to my face as I quickly look away.

But when he turns toward me, that’s when I see it…

My pulse stutters, and this time, I can’t look away.

A tattoo stretches across his chest, bold and intricate, the black and red weaving together in a striking design. And it isn’t just the artwork that sends my head spinning. It’s what’s written there.

My name. Wrapped in the coiled body of a snake, entangled with red roses, etched over his heart. The sight nearly knocks the air from my lungs.

My gaze snaps to his. “What’s that?”

His lips twitch. “A tattoo.”

A sudden lump forms in my throat, making it hard to speak. “When did you…why?”

He exhales slowly, his amusement fading into something deeper. Cupping my cheek, he tilts my face up, forcing me to see the sincerity burning in his eyes.

“After you left.” His voice is low, reverent. “I needed you, and this was the only way I could have you. The only way I could carry you with me wherever I went.”

A shuddering breath escapes me, tears burning behind my eyes. I reach for it, tracing the ink, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat beneath my touch.

“I can’t believe you did this.” My gut tightens.

And then it dawns on me: I hadn’t seen him shirtless since I came back. Not once.

He studies me, waiting, but I can’t seem to find the right words.

Instead, he grabs the shampoo and squeezes some into his palm. “Turn around.”

That commanding edge in his tone sends a jolt through my limbs, pulling me right back to the first time we met. I move before I even realize it.

The moment his fingers slide into my hair, massaging my scalp, my eyes flutter shut, a sigh slipping past my lips. His hands are slow, deliberate, working the lather into me. When he rinses me off, his touch lingers, gliding down my body, brushing over my breasts.

My breath catches.

This feels too good to stop. His hands are electric, fingertips skimming down my stomach before barely grazing my core. A sharp throb of heat jolts through me, leaving me breathless, frantic for more.

The ache turns unrelenting, so needy I crave him like my life depends on it.

“I thought you weren’t looking at me,” I whisper as his fingertips glide over my skin in a slow, tantalizing rhythm, like a dance of pure seduction.

“Never said anything about touching.” His gravelly baritone sends a rush of heat through my body, igniting a chaotic mix of lust and temptation.

He picks up my sponge, lathering it up before dragging it over my skin with deliberate care. His pace is unhurried, almost reverent, as he washes me, then gently turns me to face him. Lifting one of my legs, he rests it on the edge of the shower, his darkened gaze locked on mine as the sponge slithers up my inner thigh, teasing, torturing, until it reaches the place I ache for him most. A breathless moan escapes me, my control slipping beneath his expert hands.

He takes his time, his expression hooded, drinking in every reaction as waves of sensation ripple through me, leaving me trembling.

“I think you’re clean now.” A mischievous smirk tugs at his lips, while my body screams for more—more of what I won’t let him give me.

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