Free Daylighters by Rachel Caine

dug a pair of sheets out of the linen closet in the hall and put them on the bed—more for something to do than any intent to sleep.
    When all that was done, she stretched out on the bed and listened to the sound of the shower running. When it stopped, she gathered up her things and waited at the door. Shane appeared there after a few minutes, wrapped in a towel that showed a blindingly gorgeous span of chest and shoulders, and rode low enough on his hips to make her helplessly fill in the rest of the information in a rush of memory. She pulled in a sharp, needy breath as he pushed his damp hair back from his face and gave her a smile. “What?” he asked.
    “I—my turn.” She felt the color in her cheeks, and knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it. This . . .
this
felt like coming home, this sweet tension that suddenly pulled between them, a gravity that it was so easy to obey. Despite everything, all the insanity and fear and general weirdness of Morganville, they had
this
, and it was torturously beautiful.
    He cleared his throat and moved out of the way for her—but not far enough that they didn’t brush against each other as they passed. “See you when you get out?” He made it a question.
    “Maybe.” She raised her eyebrows, and saw the answering spark in his eyes.
    “You’re killing me.”
    “You deserve it, don’t you?”
    That got her a pants-melting smile. “Most likely.”
    She shut the door on him and leaned against it, suddenly and wonderfully short of breath, and it took her a moment before she could push away, put down her clothes, and start stripping for the shower.
    It was still warm and steamy when she got in, and she used Eve’s herb-scented shampoo and body wash, then—with all appropriate mental prayers for forgiveness—borrowed Eve’s razor, too, because the state of her legs and underarms was especially bad. The water began to run cold by the time she was done, so she rinsed her hair and scrubbed soap off quickly, then ducked, shivering, out into the cooler air.
    After drying herself off, she combed her wet hair back and contemplated the pile of sad clothing she’d brought in with her.
    Then she wrapped the towel around her body and carried the stack back into her bedroom instead of putting it on.
    It didn’t really surprise her to find Shane there, sitting on the edge of the bed and still in his own towel. But it did feel good. Really, really good. She put her things on the bare top of the dresser and pretended not to notice him as she put the clothes away again.
    “Really?” he said. “That’s what you’re going with in this situation? Ignore me?”
    “Absolutely,” she said. “At least until I do this.”
    She walked over and shut the door, and locked it, just in case . . . Well, just in case. Then she turned, leaned against it, and looked at him.
    “Oh,” he said.
    “So,” Claire said.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “You’re sitting on my bed.”
    “Yes.”
    “Wearing a towel.”
    “Apparently so.”
    “And . . . nothing else.”
    “Why, do you have on long underwear under yours?”
    “No.”
    “Prove it.”
    “You first.” She took a step closer and folded her arms.
    “Why me?”
    “You started it.” Another step forward. She didn’t consciously plan it, but it seemed like the world had tilted itself toward him. The floor was sloping. Not at all her fault, really, that she was moving in his direction. She could feel the air changing around her. Growing warmer.
    “I think you actually started it, stalking me outside the bathroom door,” Shane said. He had that look in his half-closed eyes, that unmistakable, intent expression that made her skin feel too tight on her body, made all the heat snapping in the air between them draw in and down and glow golden inside her. “So you first, then.”
    “I’ll make you a deal,” she said. One more step forward, one she didn’t consciously even take. Her knees were brushing his now, and it wasn’t