A Bride for the Desert King | Crocodile

Chapter 23: The Game Resumes

Sineka lay in silence, her body still warm, restless, unsatisfied.

The silk sheets clung to her bare skin, cool against the heat still simmering beneath her flesh. Every nerve felt too aware, too awake—still tingling with the ghost of Crocodile's touch. Her thighs shifted beneath the covers, pressing together against the ache he'd left behind, sharp and unsated.

Damn him.

Damn him for starting what she hadn't wanted—what she hadn't asked for—only to leave her like this.

Her nails curled into the sheets as frustration coiled low in her stomach.

And worse—

She could still hear him.

The faint stream of water echoed from the adjoining bathroom, distant but undeniable. Steady. Unhurried. The sound of a man who never rushed for anything.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Forget it.

Forget him.

But the image was already there—unbidden, unwanted—burned into her mind as if painted across the canvas of her thoughts.

Crocodile standing beneath that hot stream of water—broad shoulders taut with heat, muscles carved beneath golden skin, the deep scar slashing across his chest stark beneath the rivulets that streamed down his body. She could almost see it—could almost hear the low rumble of his breath as the heat soaked into his skin, easing the tension that never quite left his frame.

Her breath hitched.

A slow pulse of heat curled low in her belly, traitorous and undeniable.

Damn him.

Damn him for leaving her like this—for making her ache with want she couldn't banish.

Then—

The water stopped.

Silence fell, thick and heavy in the air.

Sineka stilled, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat as she strained to hear the faint rustle of movement—the shift of feet against marble, the soft brush of a towel against skin—

And then—

The door creaked open.

Her pulse spiked.

She kept her eyes shut, barely slitting them open beneath her lashes—

And—

Oh.

The bastard.

Steam rolled from the doorway, curling through the air in delicate wisps that clung to the heat of his skin. His hair—still damp—fell slightly tousled against his brow, darker where the water had soaked through. Droplets clung to his shoulders, trailing down the hard lines of his chest, over the deep scar that cut through muscle and bone, catching faintly in the grooves of his abdomen before disappearing beneath the towel slung loosely at his waist.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

He didn't even glance at her.

Didn't pause to see if she was awake or if her gaze lingered, heated and helpless, against the bare expanse of his body.

He simply crossed the room with the same unshakable presence, each step deliberate, unhurried—as if being bare before her meant nothing. As if she wasn't still burning beneath the sheets from the memory of his hands.