Page 8 of Holiday Scars
Jett’s brows pull together just slightly enough to make me smirk as I toe off my shoes. I grab the hem of my shirt and peel it over my head. The air in the room thickens instantly. I feel Jett’s heavy and hungry stare.
I unbutton my jeans with deliberate slowness. My belt buckle clangs, and the denim scrapes down my thighs while Jett’s gaze tracks every movement, his jaw locked tight.
“You good with this?” I ask, standing there naked, teasing him enough to hopefully crack the tension into an all-out tectonic plate shift.
Jett groans, quiet and rough, “Yeah, always.”
“Be careful, forever follows always.” I stalk toward him. “You can look away, you know.”
“But I’m not looking away,” he says. “Am I?”
“Didn’t think so,” I murmur, forcing a small smirk before I turn and trek past him and into the attached bathroom, feeling his eyes on my ass.
Behind me, I hear footsteps, and my heart explodes thinking, for once, something I want doesn’t come with blood and tears, or aching muscles.
Hope. Want.
Will Jett climb into the shower with me?
CHAPTER FIVE
Jett
Blade is in the shower, water pounding on the glass door. The scent of his spicy bodywash slips into the thin air of the bedroom. I’ve smelled it before at the gym we use to stay in shape for our jobs.
Here, it feels different. It feels too intimate for him to be naked inmyshower. Now I’m even more confused about how I feel about him.
I sit on the edge of the bed and start scrolling through train schedules, then bus lines. Anything to get out of here. Make some excuse that Trace needs me.
Damn it, all buses and trains heading to Manhattan from the local hub here in Ridge Hollow today have left. And everything is booked solid for tomorrow, because it’s Thanksgiving.
I give up and decide to stay. For now.
The bathroom door opens, and steam rolls out, thick and curling through the air like a pyrotechnic show. Blade, the main attraction, steps out, towel slung low on his hips, droplets sliding down his neck.
My throat closes.
He doesn’t even look self-conscious. Why should he? He’s a god. The lamplight catches the contours of his shoulders, the cut of his abs, and the tattoos etched into his skin.
Some of that ink is my work when Dirk wasn’t available.
Then our eyes lock, and something in that stare hits too deep, too fast. It’s not teasing this time, it’s searching. Like he’s trying to pull a confession out of me. But I’m not ready. Not like this. Not when I can’t get away from him.
Yet, I can’t look away.
For a split second, maybe two, I think about kissing him. Just once. Maybe that would make these thoughts and urges stop spinning. Maybe if I crossed that line, the tension would burn out and die before I take things too far.
Blade steps closer, and his towel slips a little lower. My heart slams hard against my ribs.
Jesus Christ.
He leans over me to grab something from the nightstand. The heat of his skin brushes against mine like a match to a flame. I smell his shampoo now, the faint trace of the salt beneath his skin, and the steam still clinging to his body.
My pulse goes wild.
Then he turns and drops the towel. I gawk at every curve, every shadow, every pulsing muscle that tells a story of the strength and the weight of this man.
Something deep inside me shifts. Breaks, maybe. Now I know, if I ever let him touch me, he’d utterly ruin me.
