What was I even thinking? I could’ve just set the iPad down, muttered something vague about hunting for whiskey, and bolted like a semi-normal person. But no—I panicked and flung myself into his wardrobe, making this whole situation approximately seven thousand times worse.
There’s no coming back from this. Can’t exactly pop out now with a cheery “Surprise!” and expect anything less than a restraining order.
Peeking through the gap, I see him stroll over to the bed and pick up the iPad. My stomach drops like a stone. He stares at the screen, brow furrowing, and my pulse kicks into overdrive.He knows. Heknowssomeone’s been snooping through his dirty little stash.
He taps the screen a few times, his fingers dancing across the glass, and then . . .
My voice fills the tent, chirping away about “revolutionary bathroom technology!”
I might actually pass out.
He jabs at the volume, turning it down, but it’s still loud enough that I can hear myself rabbiting on about “gentle cleansing action” in the background.
His hand travels south and— ohfuck.
His expression shifts, morphing into something dark and intense.
No.
This is not happening.
Thiscannotbe happening.
Except it one hundred fucking percent is.
And I can’t look away.
I’m not even sure I’m breathing.
He stares at his iPad with the kind of concentration he probably uses in theater: brows knitted together, mouth set in a determined line. Though I doubt he’s thinking about laparoscopic shit right now.
He wraps his fingers around his shaft, stroking lazily from base to tip, and my heart rate explodes into a frantic rhythm.
No. Fucking. Way.
He’s not. He can’t be. This isn’t happening.
Stop looking, Daisy. For the love of god, STOP. LOOKING.
But I can’t tear my eyes away from the mesmerizing sight of his hand moving over his cock, his grip tightening as it swells and hardens beneath his touch.
That muscle in his jaw—the one that always ticks when I do something inappropriate—clenches rhythmically.
He spits on his cock, a filthy gesture that sends shockwaves of pure lust coursing through me. I nearly kick the wardrobe. Fuck me. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Was not expecting that plot twist.
His breathing is heavy, jagged, unsteady, and yet—somehow still, he sounds pissed off.
Like he’s absolutely fuming for daring to have needs. Annoyed that he’s fallen victim to base urges when he probably had plans to do something more respectable—like read a medical journal or perfect his brooding stare.
His brow furrows, his jaw clenches, and his handsome features twist into something that looks perilously close to outrage.
Like he’s rage-wanking.
Like this is some sort of emergency procedure he needs to complete before he can return to being Lord Perfect-Posture.
I clamp my hand over my mouth, sinking my teeth into my knuckles. One peep, one slightly too-loud breath, and I’m done for.
His abs flex tight, the muscles in his forearm bulging like he’s locked in a fierce tug-of-war with his own cock. The way he’s handling it, you’d swear it was forged from iron.
