“Good night,” he calls after me, and I can hear the questions in his voice, the ones I’m not ready to answer.
Outside, the cold air hits me like a slap, and I welcome it. As I make the short walk back to my door I can still taste maple on my tongue, still feel the phantom warmth of his skin against my thumb.
Inside my apartment, I lean against the closed door and let out a long breath.
I should know better by now.
I bolt straight to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the day’s grime and the even dirtier thoughts plaguing my mind.
Stepping under the shower, I let the hot water beat down on my tense muscles, willing the spray to wash away the memory of those deep brown eyes and the way my heart stuttered when he smiled at me.
I lather up with my body soap, trying to focus on anything but the way Caspian’s dark hair falls in his eyes when he laughs. Dammit! That laugh. It’s like bells chiming in my cold, barren chest.
The steam billows around me, a cloud of warmth that should be comforting. Instead, all I can think about is the lingering scent of coffee and cinnamon from Caspian’s apartment, the memory of it as vivid as if I were still standing in his kitchen.
My body thrums with an energy I can barely contain. I want to run, scream, grab Caspian and never let go. The intensity of it all leaves me breathless.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding water. “I do casual hookups once a month to take the edge off. No attachments and no reason to get my heart broken.”
But even as I say the words, I know it’s too late. Caspian has burrowed his way under my skin, into my very core. And I have no idea what to do about it.
My hand drifts lower, almost of its own accord. The hot water cascades over my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building inside me. I close my eyes, giving in to the vivid images of Caspian.
“Fuck,” I breathe as my fingers wrap around my cock. The sensation is electric, sending shivers through my body despite the steam surrounding me.
I’m taken back to our ice-skating night, the way Caspian clung to me as we glided across the rink. His body pressed against mine, those slender fingers gripping my arms. I can almost feel the warmth of his breath on my neck.
“Cas,” I whisper, my hand moving faster. The connection I felt in that moment crashes over me again, intensifying every touch, every stroke.
My free hand braces against the shower wall as I lose myself in the fantasy—his tan skin glistening with water droplets, those dark eyes looking up at me with desire.
“God, what are you doing to me?” I groan, torn between the pleasure coursing through my body and the conflict raging in my mind.
The image of Caspian’s face when I tried his blueberry muffins flashes through my mind, so vivid I can almost taste the sweetness on my tongue. His eyes had been wide with anticipation, sparkling as he watched me take that first bite. The way his whole face lit up when I finished it. It wasn’t just about the muffins being good. It was about him wanting my approval.
My hand moves faster, almost of its own accord. “Fuck,” I mutter, feeling the tension coiling tighter in my belly. The steam swirls around me, hot and thick, mirroring the heat building inside me.
I close my eyes, lost in the sensory overload. The scent of my shampoo mingles with the phantom aroma of coffee that clings to every thought of Caspian. My skin tingles, hypersensitive to every drop of water, every brush of my fingers.
The desperation grows, a needy ache that consumes me. I bite my lip, trying to stifle the sounds threatening to escape. My hips buck involuntarily, chasing the release that feels tantalizingly close yet impossibly far.
“Caspian,” I groan, his name a prayer and a curse all at once. I can’t help it—my mind drifts into dangerous territory. His lean body pressed against mine under the cascade of hot water. Those expressive dark eyes, usually sparkling with mirth, now heavy-lidded and intense.
“God, Nate,” he whispers, his voice husky. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
My hand moves faster, more urgently. In my fantasy, I run my fingers through Caspian’s jet-black hair, marveling at its softness. I trace the contours of his face, his skin warm and inviting under my touch.
“Cas,” I groan, lost in the vividness of my imagination. The tiled wall is cool against my back as I brace myself, legs trembling.
My breath comes in ragged gasps. The pressure builds, a white-hot coil of pleasure threatening to snap. I’m teetering on the precipice, caught between fantasy and reality, desperate for release.
“Caspian!” I cry out, my voice echoing off the shower walls as I come undone. The release crashes over me in waves, intense and all-consuming.
As the aftershocks subside, I’m left panting, the hot water still cascading over my trembling body. The catharsis is overwhelming. It’s as if all the confusion, desire, and emotional turmoil I’ve been carrying have momentarily washed away with my release.
I stand there, letting the water run over me, feeling both drained and oddly energized as the evidence of my desire swirls down the drain.
“Well, that happened,” I mutter, running a hand through my wet hair.
