"Take me to bed then," I demand, surprising us both.
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in the places where his body still presses against mine.
Tyler's eyes search my face—looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any crack in my resolve he can use as an excuse to pull away. I give him nothing but steady defiance.
Then he releases my hair, and for one terrible moment I think he's going to walk away anyway. Then his hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with a gentleness that contradicts everything I know about him.
"Come on." He leads me out of the gym, and I follow on legs that feel borrowed.
The mansion stretches before us, and my senses ignite with awareness of every detail—the cool air on my flushed skin, the dampness of his shirt where my chest pressed against his, the steady grip of his fingers.
"Where are we going?"
"Shower first." He doesn't look back. "We're both disgusting."
Heat floods my cheeks. The word shower conjures images I'm not prepared for—steam and skin and nowhere to hide.
My brain starts cataloging escape routes, questioning every decision that led me to this hallway with this man's hand wrapped around mine.
His bedroom door appears too quickly. Tyler pushes it open without ceremony and pulls me inside.
I've never been in here before.
The space is larger than I expected—clean lines and dark furniture, a massive bed with charcoal sheets, a desk by the window overlooking the storm-darkened Pacific.
My imagination populates the room without permission. Tyler at the desk, frowning at his laptop, jaw tight with concentration.
Tyler sprawled across those dark sheets, the same sheets I might be tangled in within the hour.
Tyler standing exactly where he stands now, watching me take in his private space with eyes that miss nothing.
He releases my hand and toes off his shoes, kicking them toward the closet. Then his fingers find the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt.
He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion. My mouth goes dry.
I've never seen him this close before. His chest is sculpted from years of training, every muscle defined, his skin still glistening with exertion.
My gaze travels downward without permission. The ridges of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the V-line disappearing into the waistband of his athletic shorts.
I swallow hard.
"See something you like?" His voice holds a smirk I don't need to see.
"Just assessing the merchandise." The bravado sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Making sure I'm getting a fair deal."
He closes the distance between us, and my breath catches. His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up, and then his mouth is on mine again—slower this time, deeper, tasting of intent.
He walks me backward. My thighs hit something solid—the desk—and before I can process the change in position, his hands grip my waist and lift me onto the surface.
I'm sitting on Tyler McKinney's desk with his body between my spread legs and his tongue sliding against mine, and the reality of it makes my head spin.
He steps closer, and I feel him—all of him—pressing against the seam of my jeans. The contact sends a jolt through my nervous system that makes me gasp into his mouth.
Rain hammers the windows, filling the room with white noise, and I'm grateful.
Grateful that my embarrassing sounds have somewhere to hide. Grateful that the thunder covers the desperate whimper I can't quite swallow.
His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my ribcage, and I feel the tremor in his touch—the effort it costs him to move slowly, to gentle every instinct screaming for more.
"Let go," I breathe against his lips. "You don't have to hold back."
"Maybe another time." His teeth graze my earlobe. "When you know what you're asking for."
Another time.
My brain snags on the words, turns them over, examines them from every angle. He's thinking about another time. He's imagining a future where this happens again.
He pulls me closer, sliding me toward the edge of the desk until our bodies align completely. And that's when I feel it—the hard length of him pressing against my core, separated by nothing but fabric.
A gasp escapes me.
He stills. "Okay?"
"Shower." The word comes out strangled. "You said we need a shower."
He steps back, and the absence of his heat makes me shiver. His eyes are nearly black, pupils blown wide, and the hunger in his expression makes my stomach flip.
He extends his hand. "Come on, then."
I stare at his palm, confusion cutting through the haze of want. "I thought we'd shower separately."
"Waiting kills the vibe." His mouth curves. "Besides, I don't trust you not to overthink and bolt while I'm rinsing off."
I take his hand.
The bathroom is all marble and glass—a walk-in shower large enough for several people, rainfall showerhead gleaming under recessed lighting.
Tyler turns the water on, and steam begins to fill the space almost immediately.
He turns back to me, and the look in his eyes makes my breath stutter.
"Your turn."
My fingers find the hem of my shirt. They're trembling—when did they start trembling?—but I force them to move anyway. The fabric lifts over my head, and cool air hits my skin.
He watches as I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, letting it fall to the floor.
As my hands find the button of my jeans, sliding them down my hips along with my underwear until I'm standing before him completely bare.
This is happening. This is actually happening.
"Breathe, Ellie," he says, and I release the air I didn't realize I was holding.
His shorts follow the same path as my clothes, pooling around his ankles before he steps out of them. And then he's naked, and I'm staring, and—
My eyes widen.
The laugh that escapes him is low and dark. "Having second thoughts?"
"Just doing the math." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Not sure the geometry works."
"It works." He steps closer, crowding my space, his body radiating heat. "Still want me to let go?"
I shake my head too quickly. His smirk widens. "Smart girl. Now get in the shower."
The water is perfect—hot enough to sting, to wake up every nerve ending, to make my skin flush pink within seconds.
Tyler steps in behind me, and the space that seemed so large suddenly shrinks to nothing.
His hands find my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension I didn't know I was carrying. I let my head fall forward, let the water stream over my face.
He washes me. Soap slides across my shoulders, down my arms, over the curve of my back. His fingers trace my spine, and I shiver despite the heat.
When he turns me around, I reach for the soap before I can lose my nerve. My palms flatten against his chest, slick with lather, and I feel the sharp intake of his breath.
My turn.
I explore the planes of his body with a boldness I didn't know I possessed.
The hard ridges of his abdomen. The definition of his shoulders. The way his muscles tense and release under my touch like he's fighting for control.
His hand catches my wrist, stilling my movements.
"Touch me." His voice is rough, commanding. "Lower."
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