Page 108 of These White Lies
I shift, acutely aware of every damp inch of fabric dragging across my skin and how his sodden T-shirt is doing nothing but highlight the sculpted body beneath. My thighs press together, in reflex.
“I should… take a shower.” My voice is too husky, betraying the thrum of arousal already beating furiously through me.
His green eyes flare. “That’s a good idea,” he says, voice low and edged. His gaze drags over me one more time before he finally tears it away. “Before I forget we’re standing in your parents’ foyer.”
The air between us vibrates, dangerous and alive. Then he scrubs a hand over his face as if physically forcing his restraint back into place. “Go. I’ll call the team. Let them know what we found.”
I nod, but my legs feel shaky as I turn toward the stairs. His gaze burns between my shoulder blades the whole way up, and I know—absolutely know—that if we weren’t in this house, he would’ve already pinned me to the wall satisfying what we both want.
The hot water feels like heaven as it sluices the flecks of mud off my skin. Steam curling around me, I linger with the towel wrapped tight, staring at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed,eyes wide, hair sticking damply to my shoulders. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my pulse to slow.
I pull on soft cotton shorts and a tank top, even though it’s hours before bed. When I come back down the stairs, Brady is leaning against the hallway wall, phone pressed to his ear. He glances at me as I pass, and though he doesn’t break stride in the conversation, the weight of his gaze trails me until I turn the corner into the kitchen.
I dig through the fridge, pulling out stacked containers with my mother’s neat handwriting. It doesn’t take long to heat them, and when Brady doesn’t appear, I head upstairs to find him.
I stop short in the hallway outside the bathroom.
The door is cracked open, and steam billows out into the cooler air. Through the fogged glass of the shower, I catch the broad line of his shoulders, and the flex of his arms as he rakes his hands through thick, wet hair. The sight unfurls a slow, deep ache low in the belly, the kind that makes my skin feel too tight. I should turn away—I know I should—but my body stays rooted to the spot.
Brady steps out a moment later, towel slung dangerously low on his hips, water trailing in rivulets down the ridges of his abdomen. Another towel works through his hair, his bicep bulging with the motion. My mouth goes dry, and I can’t look away.
He doesn’t see me at first. But then his gaze lifts, landing on me like a physical blow.
I freeze.
So does he.
The charged silence hums, wrapping tight around my lungs until I can barely breathe. My pulse beats frantically against my throat. My nipples tighten beneath the thin cotton of my tank, and his eyes—dark, heated—catch there before dragging backup to mine. His chest rises in a sharp, audible breath, like his restraint costs him too much.
I swallow hard, my body acting faster than my brain, thighs pressing together in a useless attempt to ease the need clawing at me. Every cell in me screams to close the distance, to feel his heat, his strength—but I stand there, shaking with want I can’t hide.
“I…” My voice falters. “I thought I’d… the food’s ready.”
The cords in his neck are taut, and the silence stretches until I can’t breathe. Then I’m moving. One step. Another. The towel he used on his hair hangs from my hand before I realize I’ve taken it from him.
Stopping in front of him, I press it to the center of his chest. My fingers drag it down over the hard planes of his torso, catching on the grooves of muscle, before sweeping back up across his collarbone, over his shoulders, down his arms to his wrists.
He doesn’t move, but I feel the change in him—the way his body tenses, the clench of his fists, the slight quiver of his stomach muscles. Brady’s head tips back, an indistinct sound escaping him, raw and involuntary. It sends a shiver racing through me, straight to the ache building between my legs.
When his gaze snaps back to mine, it’s molten. “Elizabeth.” My name is a warning and a plea, wrapped in one.
I don’t stop. I can’t. “Brady…”
The towel slips from my hand, forgotten and my palms find his damp skin. Before I can think of any possible consequences, my mouth is on his chest—the taste of fresh clean skin, heat, and him. His breath hisses, and his hand fists in my hair.
I sink down before him, knees pressing into the hardwood as I trail my fingernails over the ridges of his thighs, tracing the hard muscle. Stroking upward I reach the edge of the towel.
His hand fists in my hair again, tighter this time. “Elizabeth.” His voice is rough, strained.
I glance up through my lashes, pulse pounding. “I want this.”
His jaw clenches, torn between control and surrender, but he doesn’t stop me when I drop to my knees and tug the towel around his hips free.
My touch is tentative at first, then bolder, as my hand wraps around his thick length.
“Christ.” His head drops back against the doorframe, muscles taut, chest heaving.
I lean forward, my lips brushing the sensitive skin before taking him into my mouth and using my tongue to make him groan. The sound rumbles out of him, low and guttural, vibrating through me. Making me ache even more.
