"You're still freezing," I say, noticing the dampness of his uniform shirt where my fingers rest against his chest. Water has seeped through the fabric, leaving it cold against my palm. "You should get out of these wet clothes."
His smile is slight, almost shy. "That's usually a line."
"It's practical advice," I counter, my own smile breaking through the tension. "But I won't pretend I'm not interested in the result."
He reaches for the buttons of his uniform shirt, but I step forward, replacing his fingers with mine.
"Let me," I say quietly.
I start with the top button, working my way down slowly. Each one reveals another inch of skin, warm beneath my cool fingertips despite his time in the storm.
The contrast makes me linger, exploring the border where fabric meets flesh. His breath changes as I work, growing deeper, slightly uneven. I can feel his eyes on me, watching my face as I concentrate on my task.
When the last button yields, I push the damp fabric apart, revealing the full expanse of his chest. My palms slide under the material, over his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle there, the slight roughness of chest hair, the surprising softness of skin.
I push the shirt down his arms, letting it fall to the floor with a soft, wet sound.
I take my time looking at him now—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, skin bronzed even in winter, marked here and there with scars. The military tattoo I glimpsed earlier stretches across his left forearm.
I trace it with my fingertips, feeling the slight raise of ink beneath skin. The design ripples as his muscles flex involuntarily beneath my touch. "Someday you'll tell me what this means," I murmur.
"Someday," he agrees, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear.
His hands find my waist, warm through the thin material of my sweater. His touch is light at first, almost cautious, as if he's giving me time to change my mind. When I step closer instead, his grip becomes more certain, fingers spreading to span more of me.
They slide upward, beneath the hem of my sweater, callused skin creating delicious friction against the sensitive skin of my ribs. The sensation makes me shiver, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch.
I lift my arms in silent invitation, and he pulls the garment over my head with deliberation. The air in the bunkroom is cool against my newly exposed skin, but his gaze is heat itself, traveling over me with tangible weight. I'm wearing a simple black bra, nothing special, but the way he looks at me makes me feel wrapped in silk.
"Cold?" he asks, noticing my slight shiver.
"Not for long," I answer, stepping back into his space.
His hands resume their exploration, tracing the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips, the edge of my bra where it meets skin. His thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts, a touch so light it might be accidental if not for the intent in his eyes. My breath catches, and he notices, repeating the motion with more purpose.
I should feel self-conscious—standing here in my practical bra, all soft curves and imperfections beneath his steady gaze. Instead, I feel seen in a way that transcends physical assessment.
I reach for him, needing to feel his skin against mine. My palms slide over the firm plane of his chest, fingers threading through the light dusting of dark hair, exploring the defined muscles of his abdomen.
His skin is warmer now, the chill of the rescue receding beneath my touch. A muscle jumps under my fingers when I trace the line where his pants ride low on his hips.
When our mouths meet again, it's with new urgency. The restraint we've both maintained dissolves beneath the heat of shared breath and hungry touch. His hands tangle in my hair, not pulling but holding, angling my head to deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against mine, tasting faintly of coffee.
I press closer, feeling the hard length of him against my stomach through his uniform pants. The evidence of his desire sends a pulse of answering heat between my legs. My hips move instinctively, seeking more.
We move backward together, a clumsy dance of need and direction, until my legs meet the edge of a bed. Bradley lowers me onto it with unexpected gentleness, his body following mine down, bracing his weight on forearms planted beside my head. The single thin mattress barely accommodates his frame, andthe sheets are cool against my back, making me arch up into his warmth.
His mouth traces a path from my lips to my jaw, pausing to nibble at the sensitive spot just below my ear. The slight scrape of his beard against my neck sends sparks shooting down my spine.
He continues downward, leaving a trail of heat along the column of my throat. When his lips find the soft swell of my breast above my bra, I gasp, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"Is this okay?" he asks, pausing to look up at me, eyes serious despite the flush on his cheekbones.
"Yes," I breathe. My fingers find the back of his head, threading through the short hair there. "I like how your mouth feels."
His smile is quick, almost boyish, before he returns to his exploration. His hands slide beneath me, finding the clasp of my bra. It gives way with a small snap, and he draws the straps down my arms with deliberate slowness, his eyes following the path of the fabric as it reveals me inch by inch.
When the garment is gone, tossed somewhere beside the bed, Bradley simply looks for a moment. His gaze is tangible, almost as arousing as touch itself. When he finally reaches out, it's to trace the curve of my breast with just his fingertips, a feather-light caress that makes my nipple tighten in anticipation.
