She tossed me a towel, the fabric soft and thick, and nodded down the hallway. "Bathroom’s just there. Get dried off and I’ll make us some coffee."
"Thanks," I said, catching the towel with a nod, and headed down the hall. The bathroom was small but tidy, tiles cool underfoot, a mirror fogging slightly from the day’s damp. I started toweling off, the cloth soaking up the rain from my hair and shoulders, but the stickiness of the day clung to me. A quick rinse would be better, I decided, stripping down to nothing, theclothes piling on the floor. The shower hissed to life, warm water beckoning, ready to wash away the sweat and tension.
A gasp broke the steam, sharp and sudden. I turned, and there she was—Natalie, standing in the doorway, her eyes locked on me, or more precisely, on my cock. She froze, her breath catching, and I stood there, caught, unsure what to say.
My body answered for me, a rush of blood hardening me under her gaze, her wide eyes only fueling the response.
"I—I’m sorry," she stammered, but she didn’t move, her feet rooted to the spot, her stare unwavering.
I didn’t know how to respond, the air thick with something unspoken. She stepped forward slowly, her hand reaching out, fingers brushing me before closing around my length. She looked up, her eyes searching mine, and asked, "Is this okay?"
A laugh almost escaped me, the absurdity of it warring with the heat coursing through me. I could’ve said no—should’ve, given the ghosts of past mistakes clawing at my mind, the women who’d fled my roughness, the screw-ups that littered my history.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I met her gaze, steady despite the pounding in my chest, and said, "Use two hands."
The past faded, the weight of those lost moments slipping away as I reached for the shower knob, turning the water on full. We stepped in together, the steam rising around us, the rain outside a distant echo as the storm hung on that threshold, waiting for what came next.
11
NATALIE
It was muscle memory—what I did with men when the heat rose and the world narrowed. I put my hands on him, eager and a little shaky, hungry to please. It lit me up to see a man tip his head back and breathe my name. I knew how to make that happen. I knew how to be useful.
Steam blurred the edges of the room. Rain stitched the window like a beaded curtain, soft and relentless. He was a wall of heat, all hewn lines and quiet power, and when I touched him, he made a sound so low I felt it in my chest. That sound hit every reflex I had.
Give. Take care of. Don’t ask.
I rose on my toes to kiss the notch of his throat. He tasted like soap and rain and something darker underneath—the iron tang of adrenaline, the almost-sugar of relief. I pressed closer, offering. His hands bracketed my hips, steadying, not taking. That undid me more than anything. Men usually took when I offered. He held the offer in place and waited to see what I’d do next.
He was hard in my palm. My body roared with satisfaction at the proof, bright and simple. The old loop spun up in my head: be good, be generous, make it easy.
I went to my knees without thinking, breath already catching with the anticipation of being praised for it, of hearingthank youagainst the tile. He caught my shoulders before I sank all the way, thumbs biting gently into the tops of my arms. Not a refusal—more like a question that stopped me cold.
“Natalie.” Low. Warm. A warning and a benediction.
My face tipped up. Water slid off my lashes. “What?”
“What do you want?” The words were so plain they rang.
I tried to laugh it off, to make a joke about rain and towels and civic duty, but he didn’t move his hands and he didn’t let me look away. The water beat on my shoulders. The ghost of the alley clung to my skin. I felt both powerful and exposed, a live wire in a storm. No one had ever asked me that question in that voice. Not like it mattered to him more than anything else in the room.
“I’m fine,” I said, because that was the script. “I like this. I like?—”
He shook his head once. “That’s not what I asked.”
Heat licked low and mean in my belly, a curl of embarrassment and want. My mouth went dry. “I don’t—” I swallowed. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Then tell me what you’ve had,” he said, patient like a teacher who already knew the answer but wanted to hear me say it. His gaze didn’t flinch. “What you haven’t.”
I should have dodged. I should have teased. Instead, the truth climbed up and sat on my tongue because his hands were warm and his eyes were steady and the rain sounded like permission.
“No man has ever made me come,” I said, voice barely above the hiss of the water. The words felt like setting a fragile thing in his palms and stepping back. “Not once.”
Silence. Not shock—commitment. He lifted one hand, touched the underside of my chin with two fingers, tilting my face. The gesture wasn’t gentle so much as deliberate. He looked at me the way he’d looked down the alley—choosing what to do and then doing it all the way.
“Okay,” he said. The word slid through me like heat. “Then today, you don’t do anything but feel.”
