Page 41 of Blood & Throttle
I don’t even have to tell them to leave, they just know.
Good.
The second the door swings shut behind them, I twist the lock.
Sin drops her shit on the bench, kicking off her boots, and peeling off her socks. She barely spares me a glance as she strips down to her bra and panties, completely unfazed, like I’m not standing right fucking here. My fingers flex, jaw clenching as she turns her back to me and walks toward a stall, pulling the curtain halfway before starting up the water.
She’s comfortable. Too comfortable.
And I should look away.
But I don’t.
I stand there, towel draped around my neck, watching her. Watching as she unhooks her bra, as she slips out of those tiny fucking panties and hangs them over the divider. My gaze tracks every inch of bare skin, every scar, every bruise, every dark inked line that curves along her hips, her ribs, her back.
Fuck.
I swallow, hard.
Something in my chest tightens, something I don’t fucking have a name for, and I force myself to turn away, exhaling slow through my nose. I tug my shirt over my head, dropping it onto the bench, unbutton my jeans and shove them down. The water from her stall beats against the tile, the sound mixing with the distant hum of engines and muffled voices from the pit.
I step into my own stall, letting the hot spray hit my skin, rolling my shoulders under the pressure. My body aches from working all day, from the fights, from the weight of the shit I’ve done and the blood I’ve spilled. But none of that comes close to the ache that’s been clawing at my insides since the moment I threw her on the back of my bike.
She shouldn’t have made it this far.
Should’ve been just another name on the list of the dead, another body the pit rats scrape off the track. But she’s not. She’s still standing. Still breathing. Still fucking testing me.
And now?
She’s in my fucking shower.
Temptation wrapped in attitude, with a mouth that never stops running, always lipping off, always pushing. Makes me wonder what other sounds it could make if I shut her up the right way.
I exhale hard, dragging a hand over my face before rinsingoff, forcing my thoughts somewhere that won’t end with me doing something I can’t take back.
By the time I step out of the shower, steam curling around my skin, she’s already standing at the bench, and just the sight of her stop me in my fucking tracks.
Fuck.
Standing there in nothing but my shirt, bare legs, and bare everything else.
I know she’s got nothing on under it.
No barrier between her skin and mine.
Fuck.
A jolt of heat fires straight to my cock, a possessive twist settling low in my gut. The only thing touching her right now is me—my shirt, my scent. My fucking claim.
She shifts, arms crossing, her smirk sharp and knowing. She caught me looking.
I drag a towel over my face, forcing my pulse to steady. “You’re not walking back like that.”
She shrugs, wringing out her clothes. “Not my fault your shirts are comfortable.”
I huff a short laugh, shaking my head as I walk to the bench. Grabbing a clean pair of my boxers, I toss them at her. “Put ‘em on.”
She catches them, glancing down before arching a brow. “Seriously?”
