Page 114 of The Score

"We'll make it naked in here one day." He drops a kiss on my shoulder. His hands travel down my arms.

"We're not getting naked today?"

He smirks. "Still desperate?"

I stare at him. His white shirt is completely drenched. It sticks to his skin, semi-translucent now, to the point I could trace his tattoos with a fingertip and not miss a single line or curve. The shape of his chest and tummy calls for my hands, and I revel in the fact that, for the first time ever, I can do as I wish. I place my hand on his luscious pecs, then run them up his thick shoulders.

"We're moving too slow, Leon."

His lips take on a playful slant. "I have a plan."

"Your jeans are going to be uncomfortably wet."

The path down his body tantalizes my fingers, making me want to slow down, explore everything, touch more. I don't let myself. As soon as I make it to the waist of his pants, I open the button and unzip him.

"Fuck." The sound comes out through ground teeth.

I stare up at him. "Am I makingyoudesperate now?"

"Plenty desperate."

I pull down at the cotton, but it's clinging to him. Not that I don't understand the sentiment.

"Stop," he says.

I take away my hands and he takes a step back.

"Don't undress," he says.

I don't. I watch him get rid of his jeans, and throw them away to the farthest corner by the window.

"This is how far I'm going tonight." He stares me up and down. "But, you? I need to taste you again."

I gulp. My chest loses its rhythm for a moment or two.

"Seems you didn't get enough of it this morning," I tease.

I'm sure he heard the way my voice strained.

A corner of his mouth turns up. I bite my lip. I've seen him in shorts, covering less territory than this, but it's like my brain has forgotten all about how casual that used to be. How platonic. How damn friendly.

There's nothing amicable about the way he takes a step closer to me.

Water keeps falling around us. It rains over my body, and steams up the space between us.

His nostrils flare. "I can smell the products you wear fading away."

I lift my hands to my face. "Is my makeup running?"

He gives me one of those serious, intense looks. "You look stunning."

He lifts a hand and collars my neck with it. I'm sure he can feel my pulse, if I can hear my blood rushing in my ears. It's an echo of the water running around us.

His hand travels down, sliding on my skin. It makes a path between my breasts and over the lace of my top, down my belly, and onto my skin. He hooks his fingers over the waistband of my skirt and, rather than pull me from it, he uses it as an anchor to pull himself closer to me.

I dig my nails on the stone behind me, needing an anchor myself. My mouth opens in a silent request for a kiss and, God. Finally. He kisses me again.

His hands surround my waist. They dig on my flesh. I can lean on him now, and I let my hands travel up his thick forearms, up his biceps, and under his shirt sleeves.