She walked away because if she hadn’t—she never would’ve stopped.
Sara makes her way back to her bed, the silence of the house pressing in around her. The conversation with Jaxon went well—too well. They were talking again. Laughing, even. But it’s not enough. There’s still something missing, something electric simmering just beneath the surface, unsaid and unresolved.
She tosses. Turns. The sheets feel too warm. Too empty.
The sound of the shower turning off across the hallway doesn’t help. Her breath catches. Her brain betrays her. Instantly, she imagines him—water dripping down his chest, his abs slick and glistening, a towel slung low on his hips. Her thighs clench under the covers. She closes her eyes, but it only makes the image sharper. Clearer. Filthier.
She imagines walking into his room. No words. Just want. Just heat. Just her, pressing her body against his from behind, hands roaming over the muscles she’s dreamed about, her lips dragging across his damp skin while he lets out a low, dangerous sound that vibrates straight through her.
A few excruciating minutes pass.
Then she’s moving.
She pads across the hallway barefoot, pulse hammering, her nightshirt clinging to her thighs. She doesn’t knock—just cracks his door open enough to peek inside.
The bed is empty.
Her heart stutters.
Maybe he’s still in the bathroom…
She pushes the door open just enough to slip through and shuts it gently behind her. When she turns around—she freezes.
Jaxon’s standing at the window. Back bare. Shoulders broad. A towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. The moonlight spills across his skin, casting shadows over every ridge and line of his back, down to the curve of his ass barely hidden by terrycloth.
Her breath catches in her throat.
She moves before she can stop herself—like she’s being pulled by gravity.
Sara steps up behind him and slides her arms around his waist. Her hands glide across his abs, each one carved like sin itself, her fingertips tracing the grooves like she’s memorizing him.
“I thought you were going to sleep,” he murmurs, voice low and raw, vibrating through her chest.
She presses her lips to his shoulder, her voice thick with heat. “The way your body feels under my hands? Feels more like a dream.”
His muscles flex beneath her touch.
She moves around him slow, dragging her fingers across his chest as she circles to face him. His eyes find hers—icy blue and burning—and she’s not sure if it’s her fantasy or just that he looks at her like that.
Her gaze drops to his lips, plush and parted, framed by the short, dark scruff that scratches her thoughts raw.
She cups his jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip before she leans up and presses her mouth to his—soft at first. Testing. Tasting. Then deeper. Hotter. Tongues sliding. Lips crashing. A kiss made for sinning.
When they break, her breath is shallow. Her hand drifts lower.
To the towel.
She hooks her fingers between the edge and his skin, dragging slowly, deliberately, like a girl who knows exactly what she’s doing.
The tension in the knot fades. The towel slackens. Slips.
And then—just as the last whisper of cotton slides down his thighs—her eyes open.
Empty air.
Dark bedroom.
Sheets tangled around her legs and her heart pounding like she just got caught.
