Steam wrapped around her face like a trembling veil.
The water fell from the shower in a hot, steady stream, almost hypnotic.
Naiara pressed one hand to the cold tile, closed her eyes, and tried, unsuccessfully, to slow her breathing.
Her skin still burned where he had touched her.
The scent of the ocean, the sand, his body…
It clung to her like it had seeped under her skin, beneath her ribs, everywhere.
She was exhausted, aroused, confused and above all… terrified by what she wanted and didn't want to want.
Then… A voice: low, warm, close. Too close.
A velvet blade slicing through the air behind her neck.
"Tell me where it hurts the most, little strawberry."
The world stopped moving.
Naiara snapped her eyes open and spun around, her heart exploding in her chest.
He was there.
The Grey.
Inside the bathroom, a step away from her.
Standing at the edge of the shower as if he had materialized from nothing, summoned by the rhythm of her pulse.
His dark blond hair slightly damp, his magnificent torso lit by the warm light.
His eyes… those silver blades: deep, starving.
He looked at her the way someone looks at a rare gem, as if she were the most beautiful, dangerous, fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
And then he did something that stole the breath from her lungs.
He stepped into the shower. He didn't remove a thing. Not the unbuttoned shirt.
Not the grey pants.
He walked in fully clothed, letting the water soak the fabric, tracing every line of his body.
He didn't speak. He didn't smile. He didn't look away from her, not even for a heartbeat.
She tried to speak: half terror, half desire, half a desperate need to defend herself but he raised a finger, slowly.
"Ssssh." Just that. And her entire body obeyed.
She didn't know whether to breathe or not.
She didn't know whether to flee, fight… or surrender.
She was a prisoner, not of his hands, but of his gaze.
The Grey took the shampoo and poured it into his palm. Then he lifted Naiara's arms as if they were made of silk. And he washed her hair. With a ferocious gentleness. A calculated slowness. A sensuality devastating and restrained at the same time.
His fingers slipped through her hair, along her scalp, behind her ears.
Every touch was a promise. Or a threat.
His breath mingled with the steam, and with hers.
Naiara closed her eyes for a second, then forced them open, afraid of how much she liked it. She didn't want it. She shouldn't want it. But her body no longer listened to her mind.
Then he turned her around. His large, sure hands guided her shoulders, turning her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He placed soap on her palm. Then took her hand and guided it to his own torso.
Her fingers, trapped inside his grip, glided over his abs. Over warm, wet, perfect skin.
Naiara felt her mind tear in two.
"I…" she murmured, but her voice fell apart.
He said nothing. He held her wrist, guiding her hand down the length of his body as if training her, as if converting her, as if showing her exactly what she was choosing to touch. Then he set his hand on the small of her back. Exactly where her curves began.
A slow touch. Warm. Possessive. Not invasive. But absolutely devastating.
She jolted. A sharp breath tore from her.
He stayed still.
His eyes locked on hers, a calm so intense it was more erotic than any kiss.
In that gaze, there was everything.
Acceptance.
Dominance.
Desire.
And a deep, violent hatred toward the world that had tried to break her.
Then his hand slid up her spine to the back of her neck. He cupped her with impossible gentleness. And pulled her toward him.
Their lips were a breath apart.
His breath burned against her mouth.
She trembled.
She felt herself giving in, completely.
She closed her eyes.
Her lips parted slightly.
Ready.
Defeated.
Honest, for the first time.
I want him to kiss me.
I want this man.
I want this monster.
It was the most scandalous truth she'd ever felt. And right then… He stopped.
He clicked his tongue.
"No no no no, little strawberry…"
His tone was mocking, sharp, sensual and cruel.
"But how…? I disgust you. I'm a monster."
A slow smile carved across his lips.
"And you'd let me kiss you?"
He laughed.
Looked her up and down like he had just uncovered her most private secret.
And stepped out of the shower.
Just like that.
He turned, walked across the room leaving a trail of water on the floor.
No explanation.
No words.
Nothing.
He left her there.
Naked.
Vulnerable.
Breathless.
And wounded in her pride in a new, vicious, erotic way.
A stab of emotion cracked through her chest.
Rage.
Humiliation.
Desire strangled halfway.
Before she could think, she ran after him.
Grabbed his arm.
He turned.
And she slapped him.
Her hand burned.
His cheek didn't even flinch.
The Grey's eyes lit up.
Not with anger.
Not with pain.
With something else. Something dark.
Something that wanted her even more.
He said nothing. Walked out of the room.
Locked the door. And vanished.
Naiara was alone.
Naked.
Wet.
Confused.
Humiliated.
And inexplicably alive.
"At least I slapped him," she muttered, sounding ridiculous, like a wounded child, like a woman desperate to convince herself she was the one in control.
Then she laughed. A short, broken sound.
And the laugh shattered into tears.
Violent.
Unstoppable.
She didn't understand where it came from.
Fear.
Pain.
Rage.
Desire.
Frustration.
Or all of them at once.
She sank to the floor, back against the glass, knees pulled to her chest.
Why am I crying?
Why like this?
Why him?
She didn't know. She knew only one thing.
One.
That monster understood her.
Saw her.
Touched her exactly where she was most fragile, most hidden, most true.
And that truth… that dark connection…
that way he read her like no one ever had…
was becoming her most dangerous addiction.