I made a playlist. Soft, old stuff—Norah Jones, a little Ray LaMontagne, even some acoustic Taylor Swift, because why not? I set the iPad on the closed toilet and hit play, the sound muffled but familiar.
I braced myself on the edge of the tub, dipped a toe, and hissed. The water was perfect—hot enough to sting, hotter than I deserved. I lowered myself in slowly, like a queen being lowered into a ceremonial grave, and let the heat lap at my skin. The bubbles came up to my neck. For the first time all day, I let myself breathe.
My body reacted instantly. The ache, the need, all of it sharpened as I relaxed. My thighs clenched, my hands gripped the rim. I closed my eyes, head tipped back, and tried to focus on anything other than Gunner’s mouth, but it was like trying not to think of pink elephants. The harder I fought, the more present he became. The taste of him, the scratch of his stubble, the way he’d bitten my lip and left a perfect, bruised imprint.
I let my right hand drift over my stomach, tracing lazy circles just below the waterline. I could feel my own heartbeat, hard and frantic. I squeezed my eyes tighter, letting the music and the memory swirl together.
I wondered what it would feel like to call him. Just to hear his voice, to know he was somewhere on the other end of the world. Maybe he’d answer with a “Hey, Maverick.” Maybe he’d ignore it. Either way, it was safer than sitting here pretending I didn’t want to die for him.
I reached for the phone, hands slick and pruney, and hovered over his contact. Gunner. I hadn’t changed it, hadn’t dared. I stared at the picture—just the blank circle with a G, because he didn’t do selfies and I’d never managed to snap one without him catching me.
What would I even say? Hey, remember when you kissed me so hard I forgot my name? Or: I can’t sleep unless I pretend you’re here, holding me down so I don’t float away? Or maybe just: I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.
I set the phone back down, face-up, and let it idle. Maybe in a few minutes, when the water started to cool, I’d have the nerve. For now, I just soaked.
The song changed to something slow and sad, and I rolled onto my side, bubbles slopping over the porcelain. The motion jarred the little bench, and my phone teetered, then slid to the tile floor with a crack. I groaned, wiped my hand on a towel, and fished it up and set it back on the bench and sank back into the feeling of the hot water against my skin.
Chapter 6
Gunner
By ten o’clock, I’d showered the cattle stench off my skin, trimmed my beard with the precision of a surgeon, and was down to nothing but a threadbare towel, drying off in the dark of my bedroom. My phone was charging on the window ledge, blinking with a blue notification. I figured it was a calendar reminder about the livestock auction at the stockyards, but when I checked, it was an incoming call, not a text.
Brie.
My thumb hovered over the answer button, suspicious. Was she calling to try to lure me back to her house for some phantom repair, hoping for a part two of what happened earlier? I waited out the first ring, debating, but the stubborn part of me wanted to hear what kind of shitstorm she was about to unleash.
I answered on the third ring, said nothing, and held the phone to my ear.
At first, I heard only the slosh of water and the faint click of a playlist—something soft and sad, Ray LaMontagne or someone similar. The music was soft drowned out by the steady pulse of water. She must have dialed me by accident. I waited just to be sure, and that’s when I caught the little gasp.
It wasn’t a pain noise. I’d heard enough of those in my line of work to know the difference. This was more like the sound a woman makes when she’s alone, the world kept at bay by a locked door and several inches of bathwater.
I froze, towel halfway to my thigh. The right thing to do would have been to hang up, pretend I never heard a thing. But the second moan hit, soft and real, and the right thing went straight out the window. My body reacted before my brain caught up. My cock, barely calmed from the shower, surged to life, straining under the terrycloth.
I set the phone by the bed and clicked speaker, the hiss of water and the low drone of her breathing filling the room. I sat on the edge of the mattress, legs spread, towel tenting in the middle. I could picture her, knees drawn up, brunette and blue hair curling at her neck, body pale and half-lost in a mountain of bubbles.
She must have shifted in the tub, because there was a slosh and a high, shaky intake of breath. Then she muttered, almost too low for the mic: “Damn you, Gunner. Why are you so fucking sexy?”
That’s when I lost whatever moral ground I’d had. I slipped the towel off, let it hit the floor, and lay back, wrapping my hand around the base of my cock, squeezing just enough to ease the ache. I stroked slow, matching her rhythm. The slick sound of water on skin was clear through the speaker.
She whimpered, a broken little plea, and my balls drew tight. I’d have mocked myself if it weren’t so goddamn perfect.
I closed my eyes and let her voice carry me: “Finn. Oh, god. I want you—” She cut herself off with another gasp. “Please, yes, just—”
I picked up the phone, brought it close, just to hear every little sound. I wanted to say her name, let her know I was listening, but something told me she needed this, needed to believe she was still alone. That she was safe.
Her moans built, climbing from soft whimpers to something sharper, rough with need. She didn’t bother hiding it. Each time she cried out, the urge to answer her, to tell her what she did to me, got harder to fight.
I smeared some lotion I kept on the nightstand on my hand to ease the friction of my hand.
“Fuck,” she breathed, voice raw. “I want you. I want your mouth, your hands—oh, oh, God—”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I pumped faster, fist slick with the small amount of lubricant the lotion gave. My hips jerked up, chasing release.
Then she said it, her voice breaking on the words: “I promise I’ll try to be better for you. So you’ll want me.”
That nearly undid me. I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to change, that I wanted her exactly as she was—bratty, reckless, broken. But the only answer I could manage was a guttural groan.
