Page 141 of Untamed

It’s taut and laced with tension so sharp it vibrates through my skin. I watch as she strolls into the walk-in shower and turns the water on.

I watch as she turns to face me, her gaze never wavering, even as she moves closer. Her hands rise to the buttons of my shirt. Slow and intentional. One by one, she undoes them, her knuckles grazing my skin with each movement.

My breathing becomes ragged.

It’s nothing to do with the pain beneath the fabric, but her.

The way her eyes track mine, locked like she’s studying the way I fall apart beneath her touch. Like she wants to remember every fractured reaction, every pulse, every shallow breath I take.

She peels the shirt back, and it falls to the floor in a heap. Her fingers brush over the bandage on my shoulder and skim down my arms, leaving a tingling sensation that lights up every nervein my body in its wake. She bites down on her lower lip softly and doesn’t say anything. She just keeps going. Down to my belt—my jeans.

Every movement is careful. Every second slower than the last. She undresses me like I’m something fragile, and it’s fucking ruining me.

I don’t know where this is going, and I should stop her, but I don’t.

When I’m standing there, stripped bare in every way except my boxers, she finally steps back and reaches for the glass shower door. Steam is already beginning to curl up from the tiles, fogging the mirror and blurring the edges of the room.

I follow her in.

The warm water hits my back and trails down the curve of my spine, over muscle, over blood.

But it’s her hands I feel most. She reaches for the cloth, lathers it with soap, and steps close, close enough that her breath skims my collarbone, that I can see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes.

She begins at my chest. Washes me gently, like I’m something righteous. Her hands linger; her gaze never leaves mine. Not once.

And neither of us speaks, because there’s no need.

Not when the air is thick with everything we’re holding back. Not when my hands curl into fists at my sides just to keep from pulling her closer. Not when her bottom lip trembles every time her fingers graze a scar she didn’t know existed.

She’s not just cleaning me...she’sseeingme.

And I let her.

Every exhale. Every inch. Every haunted breath.

Because if this is all I get, if this is the closest I can ever come to having her, I’ll take it.

The water at our feet runs red. Not hers. Not mine.The runners.The final blend of blood, sweat, and everything I couldn’t scrub away alone, washed off by her hands.

She sets the cloth aside, and for a moment we simply stand as steam thickens around us, water drumming against the tiles, our breaths caught in the humid haze. Her lashes are wet, her cheeks flushed from the heat, and still, her eyes never leave me.

I reach out, fingers grazing her wrist, then tug, gently, just enough. She steps forward without hesitation, sliding under the spray so her bare feet brush mine. The water hits her hair first, darkening each strand, curling it against her shoulders. Then it soaks her dress, once sheer, now clinging like a second skin, tracing every curve I’ve spent too many nights trying not to imagine.

I look down, watching the fabric mould to the dip of her waist, the arch of her back. Her breath quickens, and so does mine.

I lift my hands slowly, offering her every chance to pull away, but she doesn’t. My fingers slide under the hem, peeling it up her thighs, over her hips, past her ribs. Her arms lift without a word, and the dress slips off her, soaked and heavy, falling to the floor with a dull thud.

She’s almost bare beneath the stream, completely mine to look at except for the matching white lace underwear hiding away the parts I’m desperate to see. But I don’t rush. I don’t claim ordevour. I let my gaze trace her. Like scripture...like something saintly.

Then I step closer. Her breath quivers as I lean in, but I don’t kiss her. I press my nose to her jaw, slow and reverent, dragging it down the line of her throat. My lips follow, barely brushing, just enough to feel her tremble under my touch.

She’s shaking. Fuck, so am I. From restraint, from everything we’re not doing, and from everything wecould.

One hand finds her waist, the other rests at the nape of her neck. Her body melts into mine, warm and wet beneath the stream. Still, I don’t kiss her. Not yet. This moment isn’t about taking, it’s about feeling. Every pulse, every breath, every fragile, perfect second of being seen and wanted for who we are beneath all the ruin.

And in this silence, in this heat, I know with bone-deep certainty that I will never recover from this girl.

“Ares...” Jordyn whimpers softly as I nuzzle the base of her neck, pressing a tender kiss against her skin. Her fingers drift down my chest with a slow, deliberate touch, uncertain yet not hesitant. She knows exactly what she’s doing, what she’s asking for, without uttering a single word.

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