That curve of her hip. The way she’d writtenmy name.
Fuck.
I should not want this. I shoulddefinitelynot be this turned on, thinking about her spread out on some studio floor, whispering my name like a secret she’s only allowed to say when we’re alone.
Then I hear the door creak open. My head snaps toward the sound, heart lurching—and there she is. The last person I expect to see in my bathroom. Olive.
She freezes.
I freeze.
There’s a solid two seconds of stunned silence.
Then her eyes drop.
Right to the source of the problem.
Andlinger.
Her lips part. Her breath catches.
She looks.
Shereallylooks.
And I can see it all on her face—the surprise, the curiosity, the heat—and it’s the single most erotic moment of my entire life.
Her gaze flicks back up to mine and she jolts like she’s been burned.
“Oh my God.”
She stumbles back toward the door, slamming it closed behind her.
Before I know what I’m doing, I shut off the water. Grab the nearest towel. Wrap it around my waist, water still dripping from my hair.
My feet hit the tile like they have a mission, even though my brain is lagging behind. All I know is: I can’t let her go upstairs. I can’t let her pretend it didn’t happen.
She’s still in the bedroom when I push the door open.
“Olive?” I sound calmer than I feel.
She looks more flustered than I’ve ever seen her, avoiding eye contact like her life depends on it. “I didn’t mean to—oh god—I thought it was a closet!”
“Closets don’t usually have running water,” I say, biting back a grin.
“Shut up.”
I laugh.
I can’t help it. But underneath the amusement, I’m reeling.
Her eyes finally flick up—and the moment they meet mine, her breath catches.
“Ash,” she starts, voice soft and pleading, “I—look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to see—I mean, I saw, but I wasn’t trying to—”
“Stop talking,” I murmur. I reach her in two strides. And kiss her.
Hard.
