Page 61 of Stalkers Anonymous

“My place,” I blurt, my mouth gone suddenly dry. “Has great water pressure. If you want to get cleaned up there.” Like that’s the appeal. Water pressure.

Cole’s gaze snaps sideways for a second, but he looks forward at the road before he answers.

“Sold.”

The drive to my apartment feels both too long and too short. Every time Cole looks at me, there’s heat in his gaze that makes my stomach flip. The mud is drying on my skin, tight and uncomfortable, but underneath that I’m hyperaware of the fact that we’re heading back to my place to shower—though in my head, the word sounds like it’s surrounded by scare quotes. “Shower.”

Is that what it’s called these days?

Fuck, but I want him.

The thought isn’t new, but the intensity has gone to a twelve out of ten since the jump. The desire burning in me feels almost dangerous. Like if Cole doesn’t put his hands and mouth on my body in the next five minutes, I could combust.

We park in front of my building and I lead him up the stairs, suddenly self-conscious about my small apartment and the dishes I left in the sink. But Cole doesn’t seem to care. His attention is entirely on me.

“Shower’s through there,” I say, gesturing toward the bathroom. “I’ll grab us some towels.”

“Hailey.” His voice stops me before I can escape into practicalities. “Come here.”

I turn back to face him. He’s standing in my living room, covered in dried mud, looking at me with so much hunger I can hardly breathe.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he says. “If you need time, or space, or—”

I close the distance between us, rise on my tiptoes, and press my mouth to his.

It’s different from our kiss in the marsh—still urgent, but more intentional. I can taste him properly now, and his flavor is intoxicating. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer, and I melt into him.

“Shower,” I murmur against his mouth. “Now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

We stumble toward the bathroom, shedding clothes as we go. My thermal top hits the hallway floor with a muddy splat. Cole’s T-shirt follows, and I have to stop and stare at his bare chest because Jesus Christ. The man is carved from marble. Suntanned skin over defined muscle, a smattering of dark hair across his chest that trails down toward his waistband.

“You’re staring,” he says teasingly.

“I’m appreciating.” I reach out to trace my fingers down his stomach, loving the way his muscles tense beneath my touch. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” His voice is strained. “Because it feels like torture.”

“The good kind?”

“The very good kind.”

We make it to the bathroom, where I turn on the shower and let the water heat up. Steam starts to fill the small space, fogging the mirror, making everything feel closed in. Cole unclips my bra with one hand—show-off—and it falls away, leaving me bare from the waist up.

His gaze drops, and I watch his throat move as he swallows. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“I’m covered in marsh mud.”

“Beautiful,” he repeats, like it’s not up for debate.

We strip off the rest of our clothes with more urgency than grace. I try not to stare at him—and fail spectacularly—as his boxers hit the floor. He’s big. Bigger than I expected, which is saying something because I had expectations. The adrenaline from the jump clearly hasn’t worn off for either of us.

I step into the shower first, letting the hot water sluice the mud from my skin. It runs brown at first, then clearer, and the heat feels like heaven after the cold wind and colder mud. Cole follows me in, and suddenly the shower feels very small.

With his chest against my back, he presses one hand to the shower wall above my shoulder, shrinking the space with his hard, naked body. His free hand slides over my skin, ostensibly helping rinse away the mud, but his touch is too deliberate to be innocent.

“You’re very thorough,” I manage, biting at my bottom lip.