Page 53 of Make Me Yours
Our eyes stay locked as the rest of the world fades.
“Lilah…”
I blink as shock spirals through me.
Am I really crouched before him?
“I-I think you’re dry,” I stammer.
His hand falls away as I scramble to my feet, unsure where to look or what to do.
“Want to give me the towel?”
“Oh. Of course.” I thrust it out to him.
He takes it from my hand before securing it around his waist.
“Look at me, Lilah,” he murmurs, the words coming out rough and strained.
It’s so tempting to bolt. Instead, I force my gaze to his.
We stand still, towels clinging to damp skin, tension thick and electric like the air before a storm.
I don’t know who moves first.
Maybe we both do.
Maybe neither of us do.
But suddenly, his forehead is brushing against mine, his breath fanning across my parted lips.
“Steele,” I whisper, barely able to get his name out.
His fingers find my waist before flexing around it.
With a sharp exhale, he steps back. His jaw is tight and his expression is unreadable as he plucks another towel from the rack and dries his hair. “Would you grab me a pair of boxers and then help me to bed?”
My fingers twitch at my sides as I nod and then spin toward the door, escaping to the safety of his bedroom where I can finally clear my head.
The longing I feel for him is frightening. I’ve never felt this kind of need thrum through me.
Certainly never for Devon.
Or any of the other boyfriends I’ve had.
I pull open the dresser drawer and grab the first pair of boxers my fingers come in contact with. When I step back into the bathroom, Steele is slouched against the marble counter,eyelids half-closed, swaying slightly, like he’s seconds away from face-planting.
When he reaches out to take the underwear, I gently brush his hand aside.
“Let me,” I murmur. “It’ll be quicker, then you can get to bed. You look like you’re about to collapse.”
A tired half-smile tugs at his lips. “Funny, because that’s exactly how I feel. Like I got hit by a truck.”
“You pretty much did,” I say, crouching in front of him. “And that truck’s name was Henrik Sundström.”
“Remind me to return the favor next time we play Dallas.”
For a second time, I drop to my knees in front of him, then help as he steps into the boxers. He lifts one leg, then the other, silent except for the occasional sharp inhale. I guide the fabric carefully up his legs, over his muscular thighs, until it settles at his hips. He clutches the towel at his waist, holding it in place while I finish.
