Zach had insisted on driving—because apparently, a promise is sacred when it comes to him. He'd made that whole chauffeurdeal sound like a binding contract, and no amount of reasoning could sway him.
I told him he didn't need to drive me all the way back, that I was already happy I'd gone, that the night was perfect just as it was.
Besides, there was no way I was letting him drive two hours to Naples after a full game. He'd been on the ice for nearly three hours—skating, checking, crashing into boards. I bet his body ached more than mine did now.
So I took the keys before he could argue again—and honestly, it was the least I could do.
What Ididn'tsay was that I was terrified of spending two hours alone with him in a car. Confined space, no escape route, and my brain still replaying his ridiculous yet stupidly romantic stunt from intermission on a loop?
Yeah, hard pass.
Even now, three hours later, the memory has me sinking lower into the water, my entire body buzzing like a live wire.
The way he'd looked at me while singing—off-key, off-beat, completely unashamed—God, my chest squeezes just thinking about it. His grin, that wink, the way his voice cracked mid-verse... how is it that something so chaotic could feel so perfect?
I press a wet hand over my face, groaning into my palm. "Get a grip, Caroline," I mutter, though the smile stretching my lips betrays me.
The drive home wasn't nearly as awkward as I'd feared, though.
He'd barely made it five minutes before "falling asleep"—head tilted, mouth slightly open, the picture of innocence. But something tells me he wasn't really out cold. Zach's too self-aware for that.
No, I think he knew I needed silence. Space to think. To breathe.
And that... that's what undoes me most.
Because for all his chaos and teasing and charm, there's still that side of him that's quietly thoughtful—the one who knows when to push and when to give me time.
Zach Westbrook, the guy who used to roll his eyes at anything remotely sappy, went and pulled off the most grand, public, ridiculous, heart-melting confession I've ever seen.
And now here I am, soaking in rosewater, still replaying every second of it—his voice, his grin, the way he looked at me—like I'm stuck in some perfect, slow-motion daydream I never want to end.
Steam curls around me, soft and hazy, wrapping the room in a pink blur of heat and perfume. The scent of rose clings to the air, dizzying and sweet. My skin tingles everywhere the water touches, like every nerve decided to wake up at once.
I close my eyes, and there he is again—Zach.
A shiver runs through me. I sink deeper into the water, chasing warmth that's already too much, too deep. My heart's pounding, unsteady, wild. I try to breathe it away, to calm the storm curling low in my stomach, but every thought circles back to him—his grin, his voice, the heat in his eyes when he saidforever and always.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Hear him. Feel the weight of his voice, rough and tender all at once, echoing inside me.
I shift, restless, and the water in the tub moves with me—slow, heavy, teasing against my skin. My breath stutters, my hands trembling under the surface. It's like my body knows what it wants before I can admit it.
My legs part, knees bending just a little, allowing the heat of the water to envelop me fully. I dip my head back and exhale as my hand travels downward.
My lips parting in a soft, involuntary gasp when my fingers find that sensitive bundle of nerves. Heat blooms low in my stomach, spreading fast, uncoiling.
At first, I only brush against the outer folds—tentative, feather-light strokes that send shivers up my spine and make my thighs quiver.
My fingers are slick, water and desire mingling, and I marvel at how sensitive I am, how the slightest touch makes my hips buck, my body straining for more.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the sounds threatening to escape my throat, but as my fingertip circles, slow and deliberate, I can't help but let a breathy moan slip from my lips.
My hips rock back and forth in the water as my fingers work their magic.
Soft groans fill the quiet room, broken only by the hiss of the bubbles and the slap of my body against the slick surface. Each stroke against my sensitive nub sends a jolt of electricity through my body, making my toes curl and my stomach muscles tense.
The scent of roses grows heavier, thicker, cloying but intoxicating.
"Fuck..." The pressure builds within me, growing stronger by the second. The tension between pleasure and pain intensifies as I relentlessly tease myself closer to the brink of orgasm.
