THE METAL of the washing machine was cold against the back of Mailah's thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from Grayson. He didn't move fast. He didn't have to. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves outside.
Grayson's hands were large, his fingers steady as they rested on the button of her jeans.
He wasn't looking at her face anymore. He was focused on the task with a quiet, terrifying intensity.
He unfastened the metal button with a flick of his thumb—a movement so practiced it felt like a tactical maneuver.
He didn't pull the fabric down immediately. Instead, he let his knuckles brush against the skin of her stomach. The touch was light, almost a question, but the possessive weight behind it was undeniable.
Mailah felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the drafty cottage. This was Grayson in his element: quiet, focused, and utterly dominant.
