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He’s not laughing.

He’s not even smiling.

He’s glowering at the room, jaw clenched, arms crossed, and his whole body radiates one very loud, very clear message.

Mine.

And only then do I realize—I’m still in a towel.

A towel.

A freaking fluffy towel, and nothing else.

His hand comes to my lower back, nudging me gently but firmly toward the hall.

Not a word.

Just pressure.

Direction.

Intensity.

And inside me, something old stirs. Something I don’t like to look at too closely. That voice that always waits just under the surface.

You’re too much.

Not enough.

You’re embarrassing him.

You’re a mess.

I start to pull away, embarrassment flaring hot and sharp.

But Zeke stops me with a hand on my chin, tilting my face up to meet his.

His expression softens—but just barely.

The fire in his eyes still burns, and his voice is low, steady, rough like gravel coated in honey.

“Just so there is no misunderstanding,” he says, “I’m not pushing you to get dressed for any other reason than because I fucking love your body.”

I blink.

“You’re so goddamned perfect, Casey. Every fucking inch of you is designed to bring a man to his knees,” he continues, like it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “But that’s the thing. I am the only man for that particular job.”

My breath catches.

“And I’m a possessive prick,” he adds, and before I can speak, he leans in and steals a kiss.

It’s quick, but hard enough to leave me stunned, dizzy, hungry for more.

I’m still catching up when he turns me around, gently, but firmly, and points me down the hall like I might actually remember how legs work.

“Go on and get dressed, Petals,” he murmurs, his hands warm on my hips.

And then he leans in, breath grazing my ear, voice a velvet promise.