Jen ran her hands down his arms, careful of his healing wound, coming to rest at his wrists. “I want you.”
The words hit low and slow, like gravity.
He searched her face, committing it to memory—the brightness in her eyes, the absence of fear, making sure this was what she meant. What she wanted. What she would still want tomorrow.
“Say it again,” he said softly.
“I want you.”
His breath left him. He lifted one hand, stopping just short of her cheek, giving her every chance to pull back.
When she didn’t, he cupped her cheek. Her skin was warm and damp beneath his palm.
Everything he’d been holding back all night, all day, every hour since she’d kissed him in the lifeboat—gathered behind his ribs like a held breath.
And finally, he let himself exhale.
32
“I want you.”
Her words hung in the steam between them. Jen had no armor left—no problem to solve, no crisis to outrun.
Just her. Asking for what she wanted. For the first time in longer than she could remember.
Wyatt stilled, something raw breaking across his face—relief, ache, something deeper he didn’t try to hide.
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
Heat and reverence in the press of his mouth, as if he’d waited longer than he knew how to measure.
She kissed him back, her hands finding his shoulders. His skin was smooth under her palms—until it wasn’t. Scars broke the surface, ridged and uneven beneath her fingertips.
When she rose onto her toes, he caught her, hands steady at her waist. A shiver traced down her spine as the water cooled, pebbling her skin.
Wyatt pulled back, his brows knitting briefly before he reached for the robe. Warm from the heated rail, he wrapped it around her, then secured a towel at his own waist.
His gaze flicked over her once—checking, deciding—and then he swept her up before she could protest.
She leaned against him, her head tipping forward until her cheek rested against the solid plane of his chest, her arms looping around his neck.
He carried her to his bedroom and set her down gently on the bed—the same one she’d woken in hours earlier.
The robe clung to her damp skin as he lowered himself beside her, close enough that the mattress dipped, drawing her into his warmth.
He reached for the robe’s tie, his movement slowing at the last second. His knuckles brushed her skin.
She tensed and his hands hesitated before the knot came undone.
The robe loosened, revealing her skin marked with scattered bruises, the curve of her hip beneath them.
His hand skimmed her ribs. She flinched and he froze.
“Sore?”
“A little. Just bruised.”
His jaw set as he took in the purple blooms across her ribcage where she’d hit metal.
