Her jaw sets, and for a heartbeat I think she might fight me on this. Part of me hopes she does.
But she just grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
I move closer to the door, listening. Fabric plops onto marble. Jeans rustle. The snap of a bra clasp makes my cock twitch.
The shower starts, and steam creeps under the door not long after.
The door isn't fully closed. Her slam knocked it back slightly, leaving a gap barely an inch wide. I should walk away and give her privacy. Be the decent man my mother raised.
But I move closer instead.
Through the crack, I see her. Just fragments—the curve of her shoulder as she steps under the water, the arch of her back, water streaming down pale skin that looks like silk. She makes a small sound of pleasure as the hot water hits her, and my hand goes to my cock without permission, adjusting the painful pressure.
Christ. I'm acting like a teenager catching his first glimpse of skin. But any semblance of control is gone after three months of lust. Three months of watching her bite that lip while she draws, of imagining what sounds she'd make, what she'd look like wet and wanting.
Now I know she's fucking perfect.
She turns slightly, offering a glimpse of her breast. Water droplets cling to a pink nipple. My grip on the doorframe tightens until I hear wood creak.
I need an excuse. A reason to keep her here beyond "I want to fuck you until you can't remember your own name." She's innocent. Clean. Everything I'm not.
But God, I want to make her dirty.
The water stops. I retreat from the door, positioning myself casually by the window like I haven't been watching her like the perverted bastard I am.
The door opens entirely, steam billowing out, and she emerges wrapped in a towel that barely covers the essentials. Her skin is flushed from the hot water, drops still clinging to her collarbones. Her once sandy blonde updo hangs wet and dark down her back.
Fuck. She's even more beautiful like this.
"Happy?" she asks, sharp and defiantly.
"Turn around. Slowly."
She does, and I pretend to check for anything suspicious. In reality, I'm only looking ather. Memorizing the curve of her shoulders, the way the towel clings to her hips, the delicate knobs of her spine. A drop of water runs down her back, disappearing under the fabric, and I want to follow it with my tongue.
No wire. No weapons. Just soft skin and curves that make my hands itch to touch.
"I need clothes," she says once facing me again.
I grab one of my tops from the dresser, a white T-shirt, freshly laundered. "Here."
"That's it?"
"For now."
She takes it, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a bolt of electricity straight to my cock. She feels it too—her pupils dilate as her breath catches.
"Turn around," she says.
"No."
"I'm not changing in front of you.
"You already did. In reverse."
We stare at each other, the air thickening between us.
Then the towel slips from her hands, and the world tilts.
