Page 120 of Cold Mercy

“I’m changing, stay here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She stops in the bathroom doorway, and her eyes find mine, carrying a look of heat and confusion tangled so tightly together it feels like a physical blow.

The door clicks shut behind her, and I drag a hand over my face, a single, blunt realization hitting me. I am so utterly fucked.

She thinks I didn’t notice the way her breath shuddered when I said I wished she’d fuck me. She thinks she’s hiding how much she wants me.

God help me, I want her worse.

She steps out of the bathroom a minute later, towel gone, now dressed in dark green cargo pants that cling to her waist. Paired with a short, black, fitted top that shows a hint of skin above the waistband. Her hair is still wet, hanging in loose, heavy strands down her back, and for a few seconds I can’t do anything but stare like an idiot.

She adjusts the hem of her top as if she has no clue she’s killing me.

I clear my throat.

“Are you going to the bonfire?” I ask, “Or do you have a late-night appointment to murder someone in that outfit?” My voice comes out lower than I meant.

She blinks, looks down at herself like she’s expecting to find bloodstains and a hunting knife.

“What? These are just pants.” Then her gaze snaps back up, sharp and challenging. “Oh, right. You only like girls in towels. If we put clothes on, suddenly you don’t approve.”

I almost choke.

She has no idea how much worse this is for me. The towel was torture, sure. But this? This is a calculated strike. Those low-slung cargos, that tiny top riding up every time she moves, the wet hair down her back. If Kim Possible had brown hair, she would look exactly like the woman standing in front of me right now.

My jaw tightens. “It’s fine.”

“It’s fine?” she repeats, eyebrows lifting, amused.

“It’s…” I swallow. Christ, she’s enjoying this. “…more than fine.”

She smirks, then turns away like she didn’t just set fire to every coherent thought I had left.

“I’m going to help set up the bonfire,” she says, already heading for the door. “Try not to get lost on your way down.”

I watch her leave, trying to breathe through the sudden, stupid ache in my chest.

There’s no universe where this is healthy, and yet I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.

I pull on clean black pants and a fresh black shirt. The safest thing I can wear, considering I’m one wrong move away from stripping in front of her like a lunatic. The cotton sticks to me in places that refuse to dry, and every time I blink, I see her standing there in that towel, then in that shirt, then in nothing at all. I have to force myself to focus on something else, or I’m going to do something absolutely irresponsible.

When I finally step into the hallway, James nearly collides with me on the stairs. His blonde hair is dripping, his shirt is half undone, and he looks like a drowned golden retriever.

He slows, and a grin spreads across his face as his eyes narrow in amusement.

“Ohhh,” he drawls. “And what’s this look, cowboy? That’s not your usual murder face. Did something happen upstairs? A kiss, maybe? A little—”

“James,” I warn.

“Moment? A spark? A—”

“James.”

He raises both hands in surrender, still grinning. “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets. But that smile? You might want to get that under control. It's fucking suspicious.”

I hadn’t even realized I was smiling.