Page 103 of These Tears

I’m an idiot. That’s what I am.

I’ve already been burned glamorising bad things. Bad people.

And here I am again, barely seconds after I told myself I wouldn’t – doing it all fucking over again.

My ribs snatch the breath back into them and I turn over as if I can make the thoughts disperse with motion.

But the sudden sound of water fills the room – and I go numb.

It’s loud. Too close. As if—

My head jerks up. A breath splinters in my mouth.

The bookcase-door is wide open.

Steam. Shape.

I drop flat against the pillow as if struck, my heart hammering like I’ve been caught red-handed.

I didn’t really look.

However—

Now I know that I can. And I’m not very good at fighting my own demons.

He did this on purpose.

He must have.

My mind blanks. The only thing that that fills the space is the sound of the water running and the heat of his body my mind remembers. Then it expands to the curve of a shoulder I’ve only ever seen clothed. The muscle under his shirt that flexed when he was close. The narrow dip above his hipbones when he lifted firewood, his hem riding up just enough to betray it. The subtle map of veins on his arms beneath the tattoo…

Elias Crane may be absolutely mental, but under all that threat and control and emotional warfare, he is also a man who was physically designed to tempt.

And nature, I’m learning the hard way, is considerably less interested in context than instinct is. It wants to know what happens when warmth and danger share the same bed. How much friction they cause together.

And what devastation they might leave behind once they collide.

My eyes wander to the desk opposite the bed, if only to feed my mind something other than what it’s gnawing on now.

Three empty frames sit at slight angles on its surface. From the bed, their glass catches the open doorway behind me.

There, rendered in faint silver and pale suggestion, is the unmistakable outline of a very naked Elias Crane.

My eyes widen before they close tight.

No. No. No.

Bad man. Big problems. Captive woman. Bigger problems.

I have lost it. Truly.

When I open my eyes again, they traitorously drift to the desk once more. The camera rests there behind the frames, smiling at me.

My knees draw closer beneath the duvet before I realise I’ve moved them. Shame arrives half a heartbeat later.

The camera is whispering things I’m trying not to hear. Wrenching my gaze from it, I look towards the foot of the bed – only for my eyes to spring right back to the fucking frames.

Bloody hell… his body is fucking art.