Page 40 of Her Wicker Guardian

My gaze drops anyway.

Firelight gave me the general information. The bright bathroom fills in more detail, including the woven male shape resting close to his body and a patch of fine green growth at its base. My gaze stays there one beat longer than necessary before I drag it upward again.

Curiosity is part of the problem, and attraction is the rest of it.

Locke either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care. He’s watching the shower.

“Go ahead.”

He stays where he is, staring at the stream.

I point into the tub and say it slowly. “In. Water.”

He steps over the side.

The first spray hits his shoulder, and he goes absolutely still.

I straighten. “Locke?”

Water runs down the living weave, darkening the willow almost immediately. It sinks into the spaces between fibers instead of rolling cleanly off the surface, and the tension leaves his upper body so visibly that I stop worrying something is wrong.

The green leaves along his shoulders lift as I watch. One curled edge slowly opens.

I hear myself whisper, “Wow.”

Locke turns under the stream. Another section of his body darkens, and his chest expands as he turns farther into the water.

Then a low resonance rolls through him.

Not from his throat. It seems to travel through the whole structure of his body, carrying relief with it. I stop moving.

My fingers tighten around the edge of the shower curtain.

Locke braces both hands against the shower wall. Water runs over shoulders broader than I registered last night, down the long lines of his back, then narrows over a lean waist and hips. Nothing about him is bulky, but from behind there’s no mistaking the shape. Broad shoulders. Trim waist. Male, even in willow.

It's been a very long time since I wanted to touch a man. Apparently my body has decided to make up for that all at once. My imagination puts my hands flat between his shoulder blades, water running between my fingers, the willow darkening under my palms, and I grip the shower curtain hard enough to rattle the rings.

I pull my attention back to what matters. “Too hot?”

He looks at me.

I touch the stream, then point to him. “Hot?”

“Hot.”

I put my hand near the handle but don’t move it. “Too hot?”

He considers the question, then shakes his head.

“Good?”

His eyes close. “Good.”

The word comes out low and rough.

Heat drops into my stomach. Attraction, with spectacularly bad timing.

I keep one hand on the shower curtain and the other near the faucet because both are excellent places for my hands to remain.