His room was too small, too dark, too full of noise inside his head. He stripped quickly, almost violently, and stepped under the shower.
Scalding water pounded over him, stinging his skin, but it wasn’t enough. He pressed his palms to the cold tile, bowing his head as the steam thickened. Reliving that kiss, the way she had felt under his hands. Soft curves, but firm, smooth skin.
He was hard. Still. His cock was heavy, aching, every pulse a reminder of what had just happened, of her soft body pressed to his, the taste of cider and heat on her tongue. The heavy slumber of desire in her eyes when she looked at him.
And layered over it, unbidden, the memories. Africa. Hands that weren’t hers. The tearing sound of his own breath against a gag. The shame.
His stomach clenched. For a moment, he wanted to vomit.
But then her face cut through it, Clara’s face. The way she had kissed him, not with cruelty or power, but with fire and tenderness in equal measure. Want, but not demand. A choice. His choice too.
His hand wrapped around himself, tentative at first, then firmer, stroking slowly. The sensation was sharp, almost alien, pleasure tangled with guilt, with fear, with desperate need.
He braced himself harder against the wall, his forehead pressed to the tile. Each tug made his thighs tremble, his breath come faster. Steam curled around him, hot water sluicing down his chest, over his stomach, over his fist.
He thought of her lips, parted and eager. The sound she made when he’d pushed her against the door. Her hands in his hair, tugging, pulling him closer.
“Clara,” he choked, the name spilling into the spray.
His release hit hard, tearing through him, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. His hand clenched, hips jerking, seed spilling into the water, carried away in rivulets down the drain.
For a moment he sagged against the wall, shaking, utterly undone.
And then the shame curled in.
What kind of man got hard remembering his own captivity? What kind of man couldn’t tell the difference between arousal and violation?
But he’d felt the difference tonight. With her. For the first time since his time in Africa, arousal had come with heat, not horror. With longing, not loathing.
It terrified him.
Because it meant he wanted more.
And he didn’t know if he deserved it.
He stood under the water until it ran cold, until his body ached as much as his mind.
But when he finally dragged himself out, towelling off, one truth lingered stubbornly.
When she had kissed him, he had felt safe.
And that scared him more than anything else, because he wasn’t sure what he had to offer a woman like her in return.
Chapter 20
Clara closedher door and leaned against it, her heart pounding like she’d run a mile.
Her lips still tingled. Swollen. Kiss-bruised. She touched them with her fingertips and shivered at the phantom feeling of him that lingered.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d only meant to thank him, just a kiss, brief and soft, gratitude for everything he’d done. But the second their mouths met, something wild had broken free between them.
Her body still hummed with it.
She pushed away from the door, pacing the small apartment. The lamplight warmed the beige walls, casting shadows that seemed to echo her unrest.
Oliver’s face rose in her mind, polished, charming, his smile always practised. His kisses had been gentle too, but…hollow. As though he were playing a part, never really there with her.
This had been different. Watchdog, Jonas, though no one seemed to call him that, kissed like he was breaking apart. Like he couldn’t hold back if he tried. Raw. Fierce. Consuming. Likeshe was all he needed to survive the tumult of desire lashing through him.
