Page 45 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Only if you stop being a martyr and come in here to get warm, too.”

I sink deeper into the tub. Water laps against my earlobes and my chin. He takes a step in, but he keeps a hand on the doorjamb. A little thrill unspools inside me as his eyes flicker to the surface of the water before he swallows and glances at the ceiling. I don’t even know if he did it voluntarily.

“You sure?” He closes the door behind him when I nod.

He walks into the bathroom like a doomed man—slow stride, heavy-lidded eyes, tight, controlled movements. Spring-loaded. Out in the living room, he’d already stripped down to bare feet and jeans. They’re unbuttoned and unzipped, clinging to his hips for dear life. A kitchen tea towel is flipped over one of his shoulders, absurdly inadequate to dry him, but he’s obviously tried to. His hair is a wild ramble atop his head. His nipples are so hard, I know how sore they must be. Mine ache too, but for very different reasons.

Keeping his back to me, Jake slips off the rest of his clothes. Candlelight washes him in gold, accentuating the carved muscles alongside his spine and across his shoulders. His ass is almost criminal—taut and rounded, with subtle indentations below his hips. He leans into the shower to start the stream of water. But before he steps in, he glances over his shoulder towards the tub, and at me. Jaw clenched, he lingers there. Like a challenge.

He wants me to watch him.

Something dark and greedy stirs between my thighs. I want to be reckless. There’s always a chance reckless can be right. And if it turns out to not be—I’ll be putting 3,500 miles of ocean between us in a few weeks.

That mantra is meant to be self-soothing in my mind, but all it does is make a frantic little swirl of anxiety join the lust that’s already altering my judgment, and it’s like an accelerant on an already white-hot flame.

The shower door makes a soft snick as it slides closed.

I let my knees drop open beneath the water, careful not to disturb the surface. The walls of the shower are glass, but they’re entirely fogged with steam now. All I can see of Jake in the low light is the dark outline of his body. I hear a hiss of breath pass his teeth when he steps into the hot stream.

I slide my hand down my thigh to cup the blaze between my legs, dragging the pads of two fingers across my clit. Even in the bathwater, I’m shockingly wet. My fingertips slide down, up, over. There’s a dull ache in my wrist from my fall at Somerset House, but I ignore it.

I am painfully turned on.

Pulse, pressure, rhythm.

And again.

In the shower, Jake’s shoulders slump, his chin dips to his chest. I hear a softly muttered, “Fuck.”

Again, and again, again, again—

Oh my god, what am I doing?

I pin both my hands between the hard surface of the bathtub and the cheeks of my ass. Sheets of water smack the floor of the shower as they slide off Jake’s body, echoing loudly in the empty space. His hands are on his head, slicking suds out of his hair. He turns sideways, and I get my first glimpse of a truly impressive erection.

He knows I’m watching. He knows exactly what I see right now. And it turns him on.

“Jake,” I say, softly.

“Evie,” he says back. Not softly at all.

“Do you have condoms?”

The outline of his body gets darker against the glass. He swipes a rough hand through the condensation at his eye level, clearing it so he can look straight at me. “What did you just say?”

I can barely hear him over the sound of the shower. The sheen of candlelight on the surface of the water in the tub obscures my body, and I’m submerged to my chin. But the way he stares at me through the foggy glass makes it clear his imagination is filling in any missing details.

Louder, he says, “What are you doing under the water there, Evie?”

“Nothing.” I raise both hands. If I wasn’t so out of my mind, I’d laugh at how breathless I sound. “See?”

Another impatient swipe through the condensation on the glass. “What were you doing under the water there, Evie?”

“Nothing,” I say again. The light bending off the candle wicks makes me dizzy.

Without warning, he cuts the shower off and throws the sliding door open. I hear him mutter, “I can’t fucking do this,” to himself. He steps out onto the bare tile and turns to face me, chest heaving, gleaming wet, and furiously hard.

There’s a sprawling, beautiful tattoo that starts a few inches above his left kneecap. It’s Icarus falling, reaching skyward as his wings curve broken behind him. A few lost feathers extend up Jake’s hip, inked into the subtle shadowed V alongside his abs. The artistry is incredible, evoking movement and vulnerability and loss. It’s also an unbelievably sexy contrast to the buttoned-up man I usually see.