“Grant.”
My name lands in the air between us like a detonation. No game. No pretense.
“Say it, Mia.” I urge, barely above a whisper now, needing that final crack in her walls. Needing her to be as wrecked by this as I am.
She bites her bottom lip, hesitation flickering, before surrender takes its place.
“You,” she says. Soft. Like an exhale of truth.
Her throat bobs. “I was…” her tongue flicks over her lip “I was thinking about you, Grant.”
The confession hits me like a shot of adrenaline to the heart. All the heat I’d tried to rinse away comes flooding back heading straight south, crashing through my system like wildfire.
My heart pounds against my ribcage as I take a step forward.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers, but she doesn't move. Doesn’t step back. Her body’s trembling, not from fear—but from the quiet quake of anticipation.
Another step toward her.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Controlled.
Like a man stalking the edge of a line he knows damn well he’s about to cross.
And still—she doesn’t move. Doesn’t waver. Her eyes track every inch of me, wide and dark, her breath catches when I get close enough for the steam between us to merge.
Her legs shift, just slightly, and I catch the tiniest shiver run through her. My body reacts instantly, drawn to her like gravity’s gone feral.
I close the distance, one slow step at a time. Every inch I draw closer, her pupils blow wider, her lips part just a little more.
“I was thinking about you too,” I whisper, closing the distance between us. “I can't stop thinking about you.” I murmur, my voice gravel and raw.
“Alldamnday. When I have my morning coffee, seeing you in those tight little shorts in my kitchen, having you under my damn roof, when I’m out driving cattle, on that couch, in the damn shower. You’re in my head all damn day, every day Mia. You drive me fucking insane.”
Her gaze flicks to my mouth. I watch the war in her expression—desire wrestling logic; lust battling self-control.
Her eyes drop lower—to my chest, down the defined line of my abs, lingering where the water trails past my hips. She doesn't look away. Not this time.
Her tongue traces her lower lip. “This is a very bad idea,” she repeats in a whisper, voice husky, but there's no retreat in her body.
“Probably,” I admit, stepping closer until the only thing separating us is willpower.
I reach up and brush a wet strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm, flushed and soft against my fingers. Her breath hitches, and she leans into my touch.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, praying like fuck she’s as out of control and past the point of stopping as I feel.
Her gaze slams into mine, molten and sure. There’s heat there, but something else too. Resolve. Need.
Instead of answering, she tilts her chin—just a fraction—but it’s the kind of defiant little move that knocks the breath clean out of me, as she shakes her head.
My gaze rakes over her—water gliding over golden skin, curves that beg to be touched, admired, memorized. Her nipples are tight, standing against the cool air, and when she sees where my eyes land, she doesn’t hide or try to cover them.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” I murmur, like it’s the only truth I’ve ever known. My voice is hoarse, reverent.
Her eyes travel the length of my body with unconcealed appreciation.
