Page 66 of Dagger

He pulled back from her neck, lips lingering for a breath longer than necessary. Then he shifted, bracing on his elbow as he glanced toward the clock on the nightstand.

“Babe,” he murmured, “we’ve got twenty minutes.”

Before she could respond, he rolled, reached, and in one smooth, practiced motion, hauled her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

She yelped, laughing as her bare legs kicked in the air. “Dagger!”

“Shower time,” he said, gruff and unapologetic, one hand anchoring her thighs while the other smacked her ass, not hard, but firm enough to make her squeal again.

“You’re such a caveman!”

“Damn right.” His voice rumbled against her skin. “You love it.”

She did. God help her, she really, really did.

He carried her into the bathroom without breaking stride, turned on the water with her still hanging off him as steam curled in the air. He stepped into the wide shower and set her down, water cascading over his shoulders, trailing down his chest.

She couldn’t stop looking at him. Couldn’t stop wanting.

He pulled her in without a word, palms sliding over her waist, guiding her under the spray. The heat of the water met the heat of his body, and for a moment, it was everything, his mouth on hers again, slow and consuming, water rushing around them as their bodies pressed together, slick and urgent.

Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling against wet skin and hard muscle. His tags clinked softly between them, that familiar sound even more intimate now beneath the stream.

He kissed her again, harder this time, like he couldn’t help himself, likeshewas the only anchor he needed. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, until there was nothing between them but steam and skin and everything they couldn’t yet say.

Just like that, the heat shifted again, something deeper. Something that lingered.

By the time the water had cooled and her skin was flushed from more than just heat, he reached past her for a towel and stepped out of the shower. She lingered beneath the spray for abeat longer, watching him through the rising mist,riveted by the effortless way he moved.

Every flex of muscle, every shift of his body was efficient, practiced. Controlled.There was no wasted motion, no indulgence, just precision.A man who lived by discipline, by duty… and yet, somehow, he still made it look damn good.

She stepped out after him, grabbing another towel, but instead of reaching for herself, she moved to him first. Without a word, she pressed the towel to his chest, dragging it slowly across the expanse of warm, damp skin.

His breath hitched, barely, but she caught it. Her touch was soft, reverent, gliding over the carved ridges of his abs, along the slope of his shoulder, down the thick line of his arm.

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t say a word. He just stood there, letting her do it, eyes fixed on hers like she was touching something far deeper than flesh.

She toweled over his back next, taking her time, fingers brushing beneath the fabric as she worked, soaking in the feel of him, the strength beneath her hands, the quiet power of his stillness.

It wasn’t just care. It wasn’t just tenderness.

It was connection. Quiet. Intentional. Undeniable.

When she finished, she let the towel fall from her fingers, and only then did he reach for his clothes. SEAL blacks, pants slung low on his hips, shirt tugged down over thick, ridged abs and damp skin. But it was thewayhe wore it that wrecked her a little. Like armor. Like ritual. Like a man preparing for battle, even if the fight today was just the world outside their room.

He slipped his dog tags back on last, letting them fall over his chest with that familiar metallic clink, then he tucked them out of sight.

Something inside her caught.

She hadn’t meant to stare, but she did. Couldn’t help it.

Not at the scars or the muscles or the way his body made her ache, but at theweightof him. The way he carried it all. The quiet strength, the steadiness, the sheer gravity of his presence.

He caught her watching, one brow lifting in a crooked grin.

“What?” he asked, towel still hanging around his neck.

She swallowed hard. “Nothing.” But her voice was a little breathless.

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