I head up the stairs, adrenaline rushing through me. There’s something utterly depraved about seeking out the room where my step-sister sleeps.
But I revel in the feeling.
Which one of these is hers?
It’s hard to tell. None of the rooms I peek in look lived-in.
I get to the end of the hall and hear a shower running.
“Mom!” Grace calls. “Is that you?”
I freeze.
“I forgot my towel again. Can you bring one?”
My breath catches as a full-blown image of her naked and wet fills my mind.
“Mom?”
I see a half-open closet door up ahead. Stalking over, I nab one of the fluffy white towels on the shelf and push the door of the bathroom.
It creaks when I enter.
The heat from the shower smothers me like a hand on my chest.
Immediately, my eyes snap to the frosted glass.
Grace makes the sexiest little humming sound, as if she knows I’m watching. As if she knows I’m about to lose my damn mind.
This moment is too perfect.
The way she’s exposed but hidden.
The way she’s vulnerable but confident.
It’s like a burlesque show all for me.
She twists to the side, showing off more of her body. I get an eyeful of her delectable, feminine curves. That tempting silhouette sends a bolt of lightning straight to my pants.
Mischief and desire propel me.
I walk forward.
Something tells me I shouldn’t mess with her.
But I’ve never listened to that voice.
“Thanks, mom,” Miss Jamieson yells to be heard over the shower. “Can you hand it to me?”
I push the glass door a little.
A slim arm, dripping wet, reaches out.
“Here,” I say.
Brown fingers with white nail polish tangle in the towel, but they go lax when she hears my voice.
“M-mom?”
I pause. Let the moment stretch out.
I can feel the tension building.
I can practically hear her thoughts.
I must be dreaming. It isn’t him. Zane isn’t in the bathroom with me.
My lips curl up cruelly. “It’s me.”
Grace screams and releases the towel, arms windmilling backward.
Through the frosted glass, I see her lose her balance.
My eyes widen. Tossing the towel, I move on instinct. I step into the shower and grab her by the waist. My hand makes a slapping sound as it collides with her soft, wet skin.
Grace grabs my shoulders, hoisting her body against mine in a frantic effort to keep upright. One limp curl sticks against her puffing cheeks. Her chest pierces my T-shirt, ramming into my abs like pinpricks of soft, tempting delight.
This close, I can see all of her.
She’s a perfect chocolate brown. Skin unbroken. Unblemished. Like a sculptor poured a vat of melted Hershey’s over his prized statue and painstakingly waited for it to cool. Her skin is soft and tight. Water drips down the curve of her spine to a pert and perfectly grabbable—
“Ah!” She squeezes her eyes shut and I see soap gathering under the arch of her brow.
Grazing my thumb over her eyes, I blow on it.
Her thick eyelashes flutter and I doubt it’s helping. She rubs her eyes over and over again.
“Stop. Your hand is full of soap. That won’t help.”
“Shut up,” she growls.
I laugh a little, wrapping her tighter in my arms and feeling the pressure build inside me.
She’s like a wet dream come to life.
Soft. Sweet. Open.
I hold her there.
Warm water batters the top of my head and falls into my eyes. I lean closer, inhaling the scent of her sweetly perfumed skin.
“If you wanted us to shower together, you could have just asked,” I whisper in her ear.
Her eyes are red from irritation and anger. I see a glint of outrage behind her scowl. It shouldn’t excite me as much as it does.
Brown hands flail as she shoves me.
I hold firm.
Now that I’ve got her in my arms, there’s no way in hell I’m letting her go. My gaze flicks down her delectable curves again, retracing the places my fingers beg to touch.
“Get your hands off me!” she snaps. Her nostrils flare with anger.
I lift a dark brow, tilting my head so the water runs down the side of my face instead of right in front of me.
“Do you really want me to do that?” I challenge.
She struggles to keep her face angry, but it doesn’t work.
Her fingers tighten around my neck.
Her mouth parts.
She’s saying one thing, but her body’s telling a whole different story.
“Do you really want me to let you go?” I growl, walking her backward. My sneakers slosh into the wet puddles on the ground. My shirt sticks to my skin, showing off the outline of my abs.
Her eyes dip there and she licks her lips.
A sick, twisted smile unfurls.
I keep going until her back smacks against the wall. A wet, schlopping sound mingles with the patter of the shower. The ricochet sends her body jolting against me. Our hips brush and she lets out a little cry that whips a blaze in my blood.
“Tell me what you want, tiger. I’ll listen.”
She swallows hard. “I want…”
“What?” I swoop in, hovering my lips over hers.
Her eyes slide to half-mast and she tilts her chin up.
A dark chuckle vibrates through my chest.
“What you really want,” I bracket my hands on either side of her head so she knows I’m not the one keeping her here, so she knows that she’s here on her own, “is for me to make you beg the way you did that night.”
She moans softly, a sound that penetrates straight through my skin to my heart. The bathroom is hotter than before, and it has nothing to do with the steam from the shower.
“You say you want the light,” I lick at the drops of water on her shoulder, my voice dropping to a depraved whisper, “but why do I always find you in the dark next to me?”
Her skin is sweet on my tongue and I lick my way up to her ear.
The words, “I hate you” pass between her trembling brown lips.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
Her eyes glow with anger and desire. A strange mixture that glints like gold in her soft brown eyes. “I. Hate. You.”
“You hate me.” I slide my fingers down her jaw and wrap them around her throat. “You hate me… so much, that it kills you, doesn’t it?”
The steaming shower gets even hotter.
“Gracie!” Marian’s voice shatters the tension. “Are you finished showering? Come meet your brothers.”
Miss Jamieson’s face tightens. She wrenches my arms off her and skates out of the shower.
When she dips to pick up the towel, I get an eyeful of her glorious peach. She quickly wraps it away in the towel.
“I don’t care what you’re doing here. I don’t care what you want. Get out of my house while I’m asking nicely.”
I give her a cocky grin. “Sorry, sis. This is our home now. I’ll be seeing you every morning.” I push my hair back with a hand and drape both arms on the open shower door. “Every evening. And every…” I slip my eyes down the towel, “night.”
She gives me a scathing look and stomps out of the bathroom.
I flip the shower off.
My body’s aching like crazy.
“Zane? The food’s getting cold,” Marian yells from downstairs.
I adjust myself as best as I can and leave the bathroom.
Burning hot flames lick at my feet with every step. The heat I’d expected to feel with that girl in the desert is here now. Throbbing. Roaring. Demanding release.
The words I told Finn downstairs come back to haunt me.
I’m done chasing Miss Jamieson.
But I’m not done wanting her.
Those two things can be true at the same time.
And here’s another truth for the hell of it—she’s not done wanting me either.
