Because some things are worth burning for.
And Lena? Lena's worth the whole world in flames.
Plus whatever child support payments are probably in my future.
Chapter twenty-nine
Shower Sins
Lena
His shower was bigger than my bedroom. We christened every tile.
But first, let me back up to the pharmacy disaster that preceded this morning's terrible decisions.
2 AM, three days ago. The 24-hour CVS where shame goes to die under fluorescent lights. I'm buying pregnancy tests—four, because anxiety requires backups, and my statistical brain needs multiple data points—when Tommy from Miguel's crew appears beside me like a Catholic guilt hallucination.
"Late night medical emergency?" he asks, eyes on my basket like it's a confession booth.
"Stomach flu," I lie, grabbing Pepto to complete my performance. "Going around the hospital."
He looks at the pregnancy tests like they're neon signs announcing my reproductive irresponsibility. "Right. Stomach flu. The kind that requires four pregnancy tests and—" he glances at my basket again, "—ovulation predictors?"
"I like to be thorough," I say, throwing in condoms for irony because apparently my disaster has a sense of humor.
"Miguel know about your... stomach flu?"
"Miguel doesn't own my uterus," I snap, then immediately regret it because that's basically a confession.
Tommy just nods, that specific nod that means Miguel will definitely know about my pharmacy run within the hour. "Be careful, hermana."
I pay in cash, exact change, like that makes this less of a disaster. My ovaries are composing their resignation letters while my prefrontal cortex files for early retirement.
Now, Wednesday morning, I'm standing in Zane's ridiculous shower with water hot enough to make my skin pink and my thoughts blur—somewhere between spa treatment and voluntary torture—watching him watch me like I'm something worth worshiping. Which is problematic, because I should be calculating risks and statistics, but instead all I can think about is how his hands feel like salvation wrapped in sin.
"Your house is ridiculous," I tell him, trying to maintain conversation while my body has already decided this discussion is over.
"Comfortable," he corrects, his hands sliding around to cup my breasts, and suddenly I forget why I ever cared about square footage or property values. The water cascades over us, and everything narrows to sensation—tile cold against my back, his body heat that's definitely burning me from the inside out, the way every nerve ending has suddenly decided to wake up and choose violence.
"You own a custom bike shop," I say, but the words are dissolving because his mouth is doing things that make language seem optional. "A successful one."
"Three shops," he murmurs against my shoulder, and I stop caring about his financial portfolio because his fingers have found that spot that makes me forget I have a degree. "Plus restoration work for collectors. Import/export. All legal, mostly."
"You're rich." The accusation comes out breathless.
"Does that matter?" He spins me around, pressing me against the glass wall that's going to need professional cleaning after this. "Would it change anything?"
"No," I admit, already pulling him closer. Rich or poor, he's still the disaster I've chosen. "I have my own money. My own career. My own terrible decision-making skills that operate independently of your bank account. I don't need—"
"Saving," he finishes, lifting me like I weigh nothing, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist, and suddenly I'm not thinking about anything except how empty I feel without him inside me. "Good. I'm terrible at being anyone's savior."
"Good thing I'm pre-damned then," I gasp as he enters me—no condom, because we're apparently committed to our poor choices with the dedication of athletes training for the Olympics.
The stretch is perfect, that edge between pleasure and pain that makes me forget my own name. He presses me harder against the glass, the cold contrast to the hot water making every nerve ending sing, and I'm not thinking about statistics or probability—I'm just feeling. Just taking. Just being this version of myself that doesn't need to analyze everything.
"God, you feel incredible," he groans, and I stop trying to respond with words because my body is having its own conversation with his—desperate, primal, completely beyond language.
"Good girl," he growls when I scratch down his back, definitely leaving marks. "Mark me. Make me yours."
