The thought alone has blood rushing south. My cock hardens against the curve of her thigh, insistent and aching. I groan low, shifting carefully so I don’t wake her.
Cold shower. I need a cold shower.
I slide out from under her with the practice of years spent moving silently in hostile territory. She makes a small displeased sound but doesn’t wake as I tuck the heavy duvet around her naked body, cocooning her in warmth. The sight of her curled in my sheets, hair fanned across my pillow, hits me square in the chest.
Mine, something primal growls.
Not yours, logic counters. One night.
I force myself to the en-suite bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. The motion-sensor lights come on low—warm, not harsh—and I crank the shower to ice-cold before stepping under the spray.
Freezing water sluices over my shoulders, down my back, but it does nothing to dull the ache. Memories flood in anyway: her bold grin when she demanded to ride me, the way she took my knot in her mouth like a challenge, the sound she made when I shredded her expensive thong and promised to replace every pair.
Fuck.
My hand wraps around my cock without conscious decision, stroking hard and fast. I brace my forehead against the cool tile, eyes squeezed shut, chasing release like it’ll grant clarity. It doesn’t take long—images of her slick thighs, her pierced eyebrow arched in triumph, her scent thick in my lungs—and I come with a muffled grunt, spilling against the shower wall.
Chest heaving, I let the water rinse everything away. Turn the tap off.
And freeze.
The softest creak—the bathroom door easing open.
I turn slowly, water still dripping from my hair, and there she is.
Rosemarie stands in the doorway, blanket clutched loosely around her like a toga, eyes heavy-lidded but awake. Moonlight and snow-glow spill in from the bedroom behind her, outlining her silhouette in silver. Her hair is a wild halo, lips curved in a sleepy, knowing smile.
“Thought I heard someone having a private party without me,” she murmurs, voice husky with sleep and amusement.
My heart does something complicated.
Busted.
And suddenly, the fairytale doesn’t feel anywhere close to over.
CHAPTER 10
Steam And Surrender
~ROSEMARIE~
The bed is empty when I wake.
The delicious, furnace-like warmth that had been pressed against my back, my front, everywhere, is gone. The heavy weight of his arm across my waist, the steady thump of his heart under my cheek—vanished. The duvet is still tucked around me, but it’s a poor substitute. It smells like him, yes, smoked leather and saffron and sex, but it’s not him.
I make a small, displeased sound into the pillow and burrow deeper, chasing the lingering heat. My body feels heavy in the best way: muscles loose, skin tingling, core deliciously tender from hours of being thoroughly, gloriously wrecked.
For a sleepy second I wonder if he’s left. If the fairytale ended while I was out cold and he slipped away like some Alphas do—quiet, efficient, no note, no trace except the ache between my thighs and the scent soaked into my skin.
Then I hear it: the faint hiss of the shower running in the en-suite.
Relief flutters through me, followed immediately by something warmer, hungrier. I’m about to close my eyes and drift again when a low, guttural grunt cuts through the water noise. Deep. Raw. Unmistakably male.
I freeze.
Did I imagine that?
Another sound follows—rougher this time, edged with frustration and pleasure. My omega ears perk. There’s no mistaking it now.
