I brace one hand against the tile, let the heat bite into my back, and try to think about anything else. Anything but him.
Nico fucking Vitale.
The knife he dragged down my neck like he was mapping me.
The glint in his eye when I didn’t flinch.
The way his voice dipped just slightly, curious, almost… hungry.
I grind my teeth.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I shouldn’t be turned on. I shouldn’t be hard. But the second I picture the way his gloved hand wrapped around my throat—in threat, in control—I’m gone.
Fucking hell.
My body betrays me before I can stop it. My cock hardens under the heat and memory of his voice.
Of his hand around my throat.
Of the way he looked at me like he could see through every layer of bullshit I’ve ever built.
I try to shove it down.
It doesn’t work.
My hand wraps around my cock without conscious thought, slow at first, just enough to ease the ache. Just enough to pretend it’s someone else doing it.
Someone with dark eyes and a sharper tongue.
Someone who threatened to kill me and somehow made it sound like foreplay.
I bite down on a groan and squeeze tighter, my pace picking up as the images flicker across the backs of my eyelids.
Nico with his knife, blade tracing my skin like he was signing his name.
Nico pressing me into the wall, breath hot against my throat, sliding a gloved hand over my mouth to drown the sound.
I stroke harder.
Faster.
My head tips back. A groan slips out before I can bite it back.
He’s inside my head, curling through the cracks, filling me with heat I can’t exhale.
I hear his voice echo in my skull:
“You think I won’t kill you?”
I stroke faster, jaw clenched, body flushed from the heat and shame and need. My thighs tremble slightly, my heart pounding in sync with the water hammering against the tile.
And when I come, it’shisname I curse under my breath.
The moment passes, but the guilt stays. Sharp and acidic.
I lean against the wall, panting, staring at the water swirling down the drain.
