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She’s hurt. She’s shaken. She was drowning in my pool minutes ago.

And still, when her fingers slide from my shirt to my throat, every good intention in me turns fragile.

“Elara,” I rasp.

It’s meant to stop her.

It doesn’t stop either of us.

She kisses me.

Her lips press against mine with the kind of trembling hesitation that should make me move away.

Instead, I answer. My hand slides into her wet hair, and I tilt her face up as I kiss her properly. She gasps against my mouth, and the sound pulls the last of my restraint loose.

I kiss her deeper. Slower at first, then not slow at all. Her mouth opens for me, warm and willing, and I take what she gives with a hunger that surprises me. She tastes like water and fear and breath, like someone dragged back from the edge of something I refuse to name.

The blanket slips lower. Her damp camisole presses against my chest, and when she arches into me, the hard peaks of her nipples drag against me through the thin cotton.

She makes a small sound into my mouth. My body responds instantly. I have wanted women before. But not like this, not with this raw, sudden need that makes my thoughts narrow to her mouth, her warmth, the soft weight of her against me.

My palm moves down her back, feeling the curve of her spine through the wet fabric, then settles at her waist. She shifts closer, one thigh sliding across mine beneath the blanket, and I have to swallow a groan.

“Elara,” I murmur against her mouth.

She kisses me again instead of answering. Less uncertain now, hungrier. Her hand moves over my chest, fingers catching in the open collar of my wet shirt, and the touch goes straight through me.

I slide my hand over her hip, avoiding the bruised side, then down to her thigh. She trembles. Not from cold this time. I know the difference, and knowing it makes the blood in my veins turn hot.

I want to lay her back. I want to gently remove each wet layer from her body—the camisole, the bra, and the panties beneath the blanket. I long to have my hands on her tits and my mouth covering those sensitive nipples, helping her forget the pool, her panic, and any hesitations she might have, and instead feel comforted in the moment.

My fingers flex against her thigh. She presses closer, as if her body understands exactly where my mind has gone.

Then her hand slides lower over my stomach.

I catch her wrist. Both of us go still. Her eyes open, dark and dazed, full of the same need burning through me.

She would let me.

I feel it in the way she leans toward me even now, in the way her lips remain parted, in the way her body has not pulled back from mine.

That’s exactly why I stop. I release her wrist and move away. Her face changes, desire fading into confusion.

Then embarrassment follows so quickly I hate myself for causing it.

She pulls the blanket up against her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“No.”

She flinches at the force of the word.

I soften my voice. “No, Elara. Don’t apologize.”

She looks away. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“I do.”

Her eyes return to mine.