“Just another month,” I mutter to the empty room. A month of pretending, of hand-holding and casual touches that feel like striking matches against my skin.Until Meema’s treatment results come back. Until Sydney secures her position at the station. Then we can stage an amicable breakup, and I can go back to—what, exactly? My career hanging by a thread? The mountain of missed calls from my agent? The women who mean nothing to me?
The sound of splashing water comes from the en-suite bathroom. The door is closed but not soundproof.
In a shower, there’s no splashing.
I sit upright, my ears suddenly tuned to every splash, every shift of water. Is she—? The unmistakable pop of a bubble bath cap confirms it. Sydney Holt is lying down naked. Wet. Covered in bubbles. Separated from me by approximately fifteen feet and one flimsy door.
“Fuck,” I whisper, running a hand through my hair. My body’s already responding, blood rushing south so fast I feel lightheaded. This is torture. Self-inflicted, completely avoidable torture. I should get up. Go downstairs. Maybe sleep on the couch tonight. Anything to put more distance between me and the mental image of Sydney sliding into steaming water, her skin flushed pink from the heat.
I don’t move.
Her humming drifts through the door—some song I vaguely recognize but can’t name. It’s so... normal. Domestic. The kind of ordinary moment you share when you’re actually dating someone.
My mind flashes back to yesterday’s kiss—the way her lips softened beneath mine, how she made that little sound in the back of her throat when I tugged her hair. The way her hands felt sliding up my back, her nails scratching my skin.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memory away. It doesn’t help. Now I’m just seeing it in vivid detail on the backs of my eyelids—Sydney’s flushed face, her pupils dilated, her lips parted and swollen from my kiss.
“Stop it,” I growl.
A splash from the bathroom, followed by a “fuck me” moan. I’m painfully hard now, straining against my jeans.
Another splash. Another moan. I swear I can smell her bubble bath—something fruity and floral that makes my mouth water. I’m gripping the edge of the mattress now, knuckles white, physically restraining myself from heading to that door.
What would happen if I did? If I knocked, asked to come in? The thought sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. Would she say yes? Would she look at me with the same heat I saw in her eyes during our kiss? Or would she recoil, remind me of our agreement, our rules, our boundaries?
I let myself imagine it—Sydney in the tub, water beaded on her skin, hair piled messily on top of her head with a few damp strands clinging to her neck. Me kneeling beside the tub, trailing my fingers through the water, watching goosebumps rise on her flesh. Leaning in to kiss her, tasting bathwater and Sydney on my tongue.
I stand and pace the small room, trying to think about anything else—hockey stats, Meema’s medication schedule, the way my body crumpled against the boards—
I freeze as another sound filters through the door—a heated moan. Is she—?
No.
She’s probably just enjoying the hot water on sore muscles. Nothing sexual about it. Except now I can’t unhear it, can’t unthink it. Sydney touching herself in my bathroom, biting her lip to stay quiet.
My hand drifts to the front of my jeans without conscious decision. I palm myself roughly through the denim, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth at the friction.This is bad. This is crossing a line. But my brain seems disconnected from my body now, operating on pure instinct and need.
I drop back onto the bed, unzipping my jeans with fumbling fingers. The relief is immediate but not enough. Not nearly enough. I should stop. I know I should stop. But then Sydney makes another of those primal sounds, and my resolve crumbles.
I wrap my hand around myself, already leaking, already so close it’s humiliating. Like I’m sixteen again, getting off at the thought of a girl. But Sydney isn’t just any girl. She’s sunshine and storm clouds, sharp words and soft smiles. She’s the way her hand fits in mine, the way she calls me on my bullshit, the way she remembered Meema’s cake exactly how she wanted it.
I stroke slowly at first, hesitant. But the sounds from the bathroom—water moving, Sydney’s satisfied sigh—they’re driving me wild. My mind constructs a vivid fantasy: me joining her in that tub, water sloshing over the sides as she straddles my lap. Her slick skin sliding against mine, her head thrown back in pleasure as I take one rosy nipple into my mouth.
I’d go slow at first, savoring every inch of her. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her beg. I bet Sydney Holt is magnificent when she begs—all that pride and stubbornness melting away under the right touch. My touch.
I’d trail my lips down her throat, across her collarbone, between her breasts. I’d leave marks—subtle ones, ones she could hide at work but would feel with every movement, reminding her of me, of us, of what we did together.
My hand moves faster now, grip tightening. In my mind, Sydney’s in the shower now, pressed against the tile wall, one leg hooked around my waist as I thrust intoher. Water cascading over us, her nails digging into my shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations that I’d wear like badges of honor.
“Brooks,” she’d gasp, my name a plea. “God, Brooks. More.”
And I’d give her more. I’d give her everything. I’d make her come so hard she’d see stars, her body clenching around mine, pulling me deeper, turning me primal.
I’m close now, so close, breath coming in harsh pants that I pray she can’t hear through the door. The fantasy shifts—Sydney on her knees in front of me, looking up through those long lashes, her lips wrapped around—
“Jesus,” I groan, barely remembering to keep my voice down. I grab a tissue from the nightstand, just in time as I come harder than I have in months, maybe years. My entire body tenses, then goes slack, pleasure coursing through me in waves that gradually ebb into a warm satisfaction.
For about fifteen seconds.
