My fingers pressed deeper, sliding through slick heat already waiting. I gasped, head falling back against the edge of the tub.
“Damn you…” I whispered, though there was no one there. Except memory.
I moved slower, circling my engorged flesh, building, letting myself feel every sensation instead of rushing it. I imagined his dark eyes watching me. The way he used to look between my legs like it was something sacred. Dangerous.
I let one finger slip inside. Then two.
My hips lifted off the bottom of the tub. Water sloshed onto the floor. My breath broke.
Rob had never done this to me. Never made my body react before he even touched me. Never made me wet just from remembering.
Rob’s dick was good. Tariq’s wasunforgettable.
I worked myself faster now, chasing the image of him above me, the sound of his breathing changing, the way he used to say my name when he lost control.
“Sanaa…” I imagined him saying, rough, reverent.
My thighs trembled. My stomach tightened. I rubbed harder, deeper, needing that same edge he used to push me over.
And when I came apart, it hit fast and hard—my body clenching around my own fingers, a broken sound leaving my mouth as the water rippled violently around me.
I stayed there, breathing, eyes still shut, pulse racing as if I’d just been touched for real. But when I opened my eyes, I was alone. Just me. Just my bathroom. My silence. My choices.
I sank lower into the bath, staring at the ceiling. Damn that man for still having my body and my soul.
6
Yesterday, Sanaa had walked into my office like she wasn’t the woman who once shattered me. Like I wasn’t the man who let her.
She sat across from me with those same eyes—calm seas hiding storms—and I could barely breathe. Every word out hermouth had me rewinding time, tripping over memories I never stopped carrying.
I’d fumbled her in ways I still couldn’t say out loud. Thought I could keep her close without giving her everything. Thought my silence could shield her, when all it did was push her away.
I didn’t say what I should’ve said back then. That the fire scared me and I was afraid to scare her too.
And yesterday, when she leaned back in my chair, letting her legs cross slowly and deliberately—I damn near forgot how to speak again.
She still had that effect on me and I realized nothing would ever change that when I had to hold myself back from chasing her down when she left my office.
I was still the fool staring after her, trying not to drown in what we used to be.
My morning hadn’t been sloppy. I didn’t allow that. Not in this job. Not at this rank.
I woke before sunrise, same as always. Ran three miles through Highland Park while the city was still quiet enough to think. Showered. Shaved clean. Pressed my shirt. Knotted my tie twice until it sat right. Ate what I always ate—protein shake and grapes. Fuel, not comfort.
Discipline was the only way to carry what this work asked of you. The only way to walk into burned spaces without letting them follow you home. But even with all that control, she was still there. In the back of my mind. In the rhythm of my steps. In the silence between breaths.
I could button my collar. I could polish my shoes. I could make the outside of my life look ordered and exact. It didn’t change the fact that seeing Sanaa again had knocked something loose I’d spent six years locking down.
Hell, I’d barely slept last night. Laid in bed for hours with my hand around my dick, hard as steel and thinking about the wayher voice dipped when she said my name. I stroked myself slow, my eyes shut, her scent still in my lungs. But I stopped before the edge. Didn’t finish. Couldn’t. Not without her.
By midafternoon,I was bone tired.
My boots crunched over scorched gravel and ash as I made another pass around the perimeter, cataloging what couldn’t be saved. Smoke still hung in the air—not heavy, but enough to coat the back of your throat if you breathed too deep. My gloves were black at the fingertips, the fabric worn smooth from pressure and grit. I didn’t mind. The mess helped me think. Helped me listen.
Some men solve fires with data. Timelines, witness logs, damage ratios. I did all that too—but mostly, I hunted silence. The shift in the air. The place where the fire started lying.
We’d narrowed the ignition site to the west wing—a collapsed wall and the remnants of what looked like a gallery space. A melted metal bracket hung twisted from brick. Canvas had curled into charred leaves. The accelerant had been clean. Professional. Whoever set this wanted precision, not chaos.
