RHEA
“Arms up.”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t wait for me to obey. His fingers find the hem of the pyjama top and drag it up—slow, torturously slow—peeling the fabric away inch by inch. The hem catches on my breasts, dragging over my already sensitive n*****s, making them tighten instantly under his stare.
The shirt comes off. I’m bare from the waist up.
His eyes devour me—hungry, reverent, possessive.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the pyjama pants, drags them down my thighs, past my knees, all the way to my ankles. I step out, naked now, skin prickling under the warm steam and his gaze.
He doesn’t speak. Just looks. Like he’s memorizing every curve, every scar, every inch he’s already claimed.
Then he strips himself—efficient, controlled. Jacket off. Shirt unbuttoned a
