It takes me a minute to slide out of the truck and walk inside, half-dazed. Despite his coldness, I search for him, drawn. I’m still rattled by the attack, but my body wants to be near him. He’s my protector.
My conscience, though... that little voice in my head I ignored most of the night, says:give him time.
In the distance, the shower runs. As I approach, his shoes are kicked off, and his clothes flung on the floor.
“Grayson?” I call over the shower’s hum.
“Go away, Charlotte,” he growls, voice short, barely reinedin.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
The steam curls around me like fingers, warm and thick as I edge closer. The glass is fogged, but not enough to hide him. Not enough to save me from the sight.
He’s facing the wall. Head bowed. One arm braced above him. The other... moving.
Touchinghimself.
Water cascades over him in long, worshipful strokes. Down the broad slope of his shoulders, over the valleys carved between his back muscles, down to the curve of his flexed ass. Every inch of him looks forged in steel and punishment.
I watch, hypnotized. His hand works steady strokes along his length, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.
My hero. My monster.
My Grayson.
The softtinkof my cuffs against the glass door cuts through the hum of the shower.
He hears it.
And then, slowly, he turns.
His eyebrows lift, muscles flexing as he glances over his shoulder. The movement is unhurried, but tense.
His eyes find mine through the haze.
Sharp. Piercing. Rich hues of emerald green and gold contrast against his dark, wet eyelashes. Droplets roll along his sculpted jaw.
And he sees me.
Not justlooksat me. Sees me.
My nervous smile. My wide eyes. My cuffs. The tremble of my body.
His gaze drags down like a physical touch, and I feel it everywhere, especially between my thighs.
He doesn’t blink.
“Why can’t you just fucking listen to me?” His chest heaves. “I need you to stay away from me right now.”
But I don’t move.
I swallow, shaking my head. This man is where I want to be. Close. Safe. By his side. Whatever that means or requires. In fact, I hate that he’s jerking off. I’m here. Desperate to thank him, to apologize, to be everything he needs.
My voice is small and cautious. “I can’t leave you, Grayson.”
His gaze drops to my wrists. The cuffs.
