J. Saman

way as we sink down to the bottom. He kisses me briefly under the water before he grips my hips tighter and pushes up with his feet from the pool floor. We emerge with a sputter and a gasp, all breathless laughter.

His mouth claims mine once more, grinning against my lips as I spit some water into his that he tries to spit right back into mine. I shove him away before he can, treading water and kicking my feet up, swimming away from him.

“You could have at least given me the chance to take my sneakers off.” I hold one up, out of the water. They’re absolutely ruined. Heavy as hell and soggy against my feet. And my socks. Ewwww.

“I’ll buy you another pair.”

I splash water at his face. “No, thanks.”

“But I want to.”

“I have my own money, Luca. I don’t need yours.”

I rip off my ruined sneakers, one by one, tossing them over to the stone hardscape. Then my shirt, leaving me in just my sports bra and running shorts.

I spin in the water, swimming away from him toward the edge of the pool, staring out the glass as dawn crests above the Boston skyscrapers, painting the eastern sky with pinks and purples. Luca comes in behind me, his hands on the wall on either side of mine, locking me in, his chest to my back.

“Your pool is heated.”

“So is the hot tub.”

“No kidding. I never would have guessed that.”

His teeth nip at my shoulder, and I spin around in his arms, wrapping mine around his neck. “You’re still wearing your shirt.”

His eyes hold mine, but something flickers in them. Something I’m not sure I’ve ever seen on this man before. He rips his shirt over his head and tosses it away. His sneakers are next and now he’s just in his shorts and—

“Luca…”

I gasp, my hand covering my lips. I can feel his nervous gaze on me, but I can’t remove mine from the left side of his chest as it hovers above the water.

Tremulous fingers glide through it until I’m touching his warm, wet flesh. Right over black ink. “A bird that you set free may be caught again, but a word that escapes your lips will not return,” I read.

“It’s a Jewish proverb.”

start to squirm, unable to stop it as I say, “Yes. I’d rather not set you on fire, if that’s okay. The cuffs of your shirt stick out.”

“Fair enough.” With his eyes locked on mine, he slowly undoes one button at a time, starting at the top, and holy hell, what have I gotten myself into? My heart beats off-rhythm as heated pumps of lust rush through my blood. He gets to the bottom, removing his shirt and tossing it onto the stool, leaving him in a black tank top undershirt showing off his arm muscles and tattoos and…

I take an inadvertent step forward, my eyes glued to his chest. To his left nipple.

“Does it hurt?” I whisper, staring at the outline of the barbell through the thin cotton that clings to every ridge and groove of him.

“Sometimes.” His voice a deep, rich timbre that gives me chills.

I look up and meet his eyes. “Does it feel good?”

My chest quakes.

The green of his eyes is nearly fully eclipsed with black pupils as he licks his lips and nods. “Sometimes. Depending on…”

“On what someone does to it?” I finish for him.

Because refusing you anything makes me physically sick.”