Amber sat curled on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to her chest, wearing nothing but one of Nathan's crisp white shirts. It swallowed her frame, the fabric still warm from his body. The sleeves hung past her hands. She buried her face in them, inhaling him.
She didn't know what this was—this thing between them—but it felt too big to name.
Nathan hadn't touched her since the library. Not really. Not in the way she secretly craved. But every glance, every brush of his hand, every time he said her name like a prayer and a threat—it chipped away at her resolve.
She was falling. Fast. And she wasn't sure she wanted to stop.
The door creaked open.
Nathan stepped inside, shirtless, towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water clung to his skin, sliding down the hard planes of his chest. His eyes found her, and everything shifted.
He didn't smile.
He stared.
"That's my shirt," he said.
She shrugged, trying to play it cool. "I was cold."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "You look better in it than I ever did."
Amber's breath caught as he walked toward her, slow and unhurried. A predator who knew exactly what he wanted—and exactly how to make her want it too.
"Say the word," he said softly, sitting beside her. "And I'll leave. I'll sleep on the couch. I won't touch you."
She looked at him. His eyes, usually sharp and burning, now shimmered with something softer. Warmer. Real.
"I don't want you to leave," she said. Her voice trembled, but her gaze didn't.
He reached out, his knuckles brushing her cheek. "Then tell me what you want, Amber."
Her heart pounded. Her whole body buzzed.
"I want to know what it feels like," she whispered.
"To be wanted?" he asked.
She nodded.
He leaned in, so close his lips nearly touched hers. "You don't just make me want, Amber. You make me ache."
She closed the space between them—barely. A breath. A kiss softer than silence.
Then Nathan growled low in his throat and pulled her into his lap, the kiss deepening, his hands exploring like he couldn't get enough. She clung to him, her fingers tangling in his wet hair, her body melting against his.
His mouth left hers only to trail heat down her neck. "You can still stop me," he murmured against her skin.
"I don't want to," she breathed. "Please… don't stop."
Something in him snapped.
Nathan stood, carrying her effortlessly across the room. He laid her on the bed like she was made of glass, but his eyes said he wanted to shatter her in the best possible way.
He hovered above her, fingers tracing the edge of the shirt she wore—his shirt. Slowly, reverently, he unbuttoned it, one button at a time, revealing her inch by inch.
Amber trembled beneath him—not from fear, but from anticipation. From need.
When she was bare before him, he didn't dive in. He just looked at her, eyes dark with reverence.
"You're beautiful," he said. "And you're mine."
She reached for him, pulled him down into her arms, into her heat, into her heart.
And when he finally joined with her—slow, deep, breathtaking—it was everything.
Amber had never known pleasure could feel like worship. That love could feel like surrender.
She gave herself to him, body and soul.
And somewhere in the dark, tangled between moans and whispered names, she realized something terrifying.
She wasn't just falling for Nathan Cross.
She already had.