Oh no. No, no, no?—
The decon unit was a basic setup. Open stall, industrial drain, overhead spray head. They used it for cargo handling when something leaked or when a job got messy. It wasn’t private. It wasn’t meant to be private. It was a hose in a corner with a floor grate.
And Raaze was walking straight toward it.
Oh hell, she should close the feed.
But she couldn’t make her hand move.
He stopped in front of the stall and reached for his waistband.
Close the feed. Close the fuc-fudging feed right now, Caitlyn May Rhenn, she lectured herself, the voice in her head sounding a lot like Fred.
The pants hit the deck.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Holy sh—he was put together like nothing she’d ever seen. Not bulky, he was built to move, with long lines of muscle that shifted under scarred skin as he stepped out of the fabric pooled at his feet.
And the scars. Oh my god, they were everywhere. Scars crossed his ribs, a thick rope of tissue curving around his hip, and some that looked like claw marks down his left thigh. Not fresh. They looked years old, maybe decades. The kind of scars that came from a life spent getting hit and getting back up.
He stepped into the stall and turned on the water.
She winced in sympathy. That stuff was cold. But he barely seemed to notice, standing there with his head back as the water sheeted down over his shoulders, his back, and the hard curve of his ass. She should look away. She really should look away… but she still didn’t close the feed. She couldn’t. Her hand sat on the console six inches from the switch, motionless as her gaze welded itself to the screen.
The camera angle was the normal overhead industrial placement, meant for monitoring cargo and comings and goings in the bay. Which meant it showed everything.
Everything.
He turned under the spray, letting the water run down his chest, and she tracked the path of it without meaning to. Over the flat planes of his stomach and lower. Past the cut of his hips. Down to?—
Stop looking. For the love of all that is holy, stop looking at his?—
Her face burned like the sun. Any sun you cared to mention.
He was… proportional. That was the word her brain supplied, which was a spectacular understatement given that she was fairly certain human men didn’t come equipped like that. None of the ones she’d been with, anyway. Not even close. She bit her lip, turning her head to the side. If that was it soft, then… She crossed her legs.
He lifted his head and winked at the camera.
Her stomach dropped through the deck plating.
Oh shit, he knew. The bastard knew she was watching.
But he didn’t stop like anyone normal, with morals or ethics, or even a sense of decency would. Instead, he slid his hands over his body with deliberate, unhurried strokes. Across his shoulders, then down his arms. His hands splayed out over his chest, across the muscle there before sliding lower. He wasn’t washing anymore. He wasn’t even pretending to wash anything. This was a performance… or a challenge.
Look at me, the quirk of his full lips said. I know you’re watching. Keep watching.
She should close the feed. She should close the feed, pretend this never happened, and never, ever look him in the eye again. Perhaps she should even jettison herself out of the airlock because there was no way she’d be able to face him after this.
She still didn’t cut the feed.
He leaned back against the shower wall, the water running down his skin. His hand wrapped around his cock, and she forgot how to breathe.
Fuck.
Not fudge. Fuck.
Definitely fuck.
