Is he—
Oh mygod.
Is Jay getting off in the shower?
I close my eyes for a second, head tipped back against the wall, and try not to picture it. Try not to imagine water running down the same skin I just saw up close, warm and flushed, that made my pulse roar.
Heat prickles beneath my skin so fast it’s embarrassing. My stomach pulls tight, and now I feel everything too clearly… the warmth between my thighs, the pulse at the base of my spine, the realization that I’m not moving, doing absolutely nothing to stop myself from listening.
I shouldn’t be reacting to it. It’s just a noise. A normal, human sound. But it’s not just anyone, it’s the one guy I know I shouldn’t have any interest in because he’s my lifeline right now. Daphne can’t be right, I can’t have a crush on him. Because wanting him feels reckless in a way I promised myself I was done with. And I don’t know if I can survive breaking that promise again.
He doesn’t know I can hear. Doesn’t know I’m out here practically vibrating, tapping into something I was never meant to witness.
And then I hear it again… a groan, deeper this time. Pulled from somewhere lower, something that is unmistakably pleasure.
I blink hard, mouth dry, heart racing in a way that makes me feel unsteady.
Holy shit.
I’m going straight to hell for listening to my crush jerk off in the shower.
Chapter twenty-one
Jay
Fuck,Ineededthisshower. The second the hot water hit my skin, relief crashed through me like I’ve been holding my breath for days.
But the moment I close my eyes… there she is. Perched on the floor, knees tucked up, the hem of her sleep set barely grazing the tops of her thighs. I have no business imagining her, but just as I think it, she’s undressing in my mind and letting those tiny shorts slide down her legs.
Her top slips from her shoulder. My hand follows the slope of her neck in my head like I have every right to be here. My mouth finds the dip of her collarbone, tongue trailing along warm skin I’ve never tasted before, but damn do I want to right now. She sighs, and it vibrates through me in a way I can’t pretend is anything other than need. My fingers skim the line of her spine, memorizing the curve, the heat.
The steam in here isn’t from the water anymore. It’s from the way my chest tightens when she looks at me in this imaginedspace—steady, unblinking, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking and she’s daring me to keep going.
My grip on reality fades because I know this isn’t real, and still, my body doesn’t care. My breathing’s shallow. My head’s light. My fist is curved around the head of my cock, teasing like I hope she would do.
Her laughter skims along my skin and makes it impossible to tell where the fantasy ends and I begin. That’s the problem, that I can’t imagine stopping. Not when it’s her naked body pressed up against mine, or her hand wrapped around me, pumping, teasing, taking.
I drop my forehead to the wall, water pounding over my shoulders, trying to catch my breath as I come harder than I have in forever. My chest heaves as I desperately try to pull myself back into something that feels like control, but the aftershocks of that orgasm have me reeling.
Steam clings to me as I shut the water off, the pipes groaning in the walls like they know exactly what I just did. I stand there for a second longer than I should, both hands braced on the tile, willing my pulse to even out.
When I finally push the curtain back, the cool air rushes in and raises goosebumps across my skin. I towel off fast, like moving quickly will shake her from my head, but it doesn’t. She’s still there, lodged somewhere deep, the phantom weight of her body against mine refusing to fade. Regret for picturing someone who doesn’t have any interest in me beyond being a safe place for her right now swarms my conscious thoughts.
Opening the door to the hallway, the rustle of someone moving around in the kitchen gives me the all clear, so I sneak into my old room to grab clothes and pull on sweatpants and a clean T-shirt.
I run a hand through my damp hair, trying to gather myself before I step into the hallway.
The sound of movement draws me toward the kitchen again, light footsteps, the faint clink of something against the counter, her murmuring something, probably to that cat.
The smell of warm spices and the faint bite of chili in the air hits me as I walk, and I realize it’s my curry. The one I’d pulled from the freezer this morning, the one I’d been looking forward to all damn day.
She’s standing at the stove, barefoot, hair scraped into a loose knot that’s barely hanging on, one of those thin straps of her top constantly sliding down her arm. She’s humming as she stirs. Two plates are already on the counter, forks beside them, glasses waiting to be filled. I have to cover my mouth so a groan doesn’t accidentally slip out.
Nick Fury perches on the edge of the counter like he’s supervising, tail flicking lazily as she murmurs something to him about “spices aren’t good for kitties.”
She doesn’t notice me right away, which is probably a good thing because I’m still trying to school my face into something neutral. My pulse hasn’t completely slowed since the shower, and watching her here, completely at home and comfortable, isn’t helping. Something has switched in my brain, and I need to cool my jets.
When she finally looks up and meets my eye, it’s with that easy, unguarded smile that always catches me off guard. “Hope you don’t mind,” she says, giving the curry another slow stir. “I saw it in the fridge and figured we could eat together.”
