"I smell like motor oil and sweat," Jay says, but he's smiling a little, like my words pleased him somehow. "You're just being polite."
He stands up, stretching, and his shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of stomach. Pale skin, a glimpse of muscle, the waistband of his jeans riding low. I look away quickly, my face burning, staring at the empty pizza box like it's the most interesting thing in the world.
"You can use the shower after me, if you want," Jay says, like he has no idea what he's doing to me.
"Okay. Yeah. Thanks."
He disappears into the bathroom and I hear the water turn on. I sit on the bed, staring at the closed door, my heart pounding.
What is happening to me?
I've never felt like this before. Every time Jay moves, I notice. The shift of his weight, the gesture of his hands, the way he tilts his head when he's thinking. Every time he looks at me with those dark eyes, I can't look away.
It's not normal. This isn't how you feel about your foster brother, about someone you grew up with, about family.
This is pure, raw physical attraction.
The water shuts off. I hear movement behind the door, the slide of the shower curtain, the rustle of fabric, footsteps on tile.
The bathroom door swings open and a rush of warm, humid air rolls out first—thick with the clean bite of soap, and something unmistakably Jay, like engine oil and summer heat baked into him after a long day. It rolls over me, flooding the small room, wrapping around me until I can taste the scent of him on the back of my tongue.
Then he steps into view.
His hair is soaked, black strands plastered to his forehead and the sharp line of his neck, water dripping in slow beads that catch the dim lamplight as they slide down his throat. One droplet clings to the hollow at the base of his collarbone before it falls, tracing a glistening path over the rise of his chest.
His skin is flushed from the heat of the shower, still beaded with moisture that makes every inch of him gleam.
His shoulders are broader than I ever let myself notice, strong, sculpted from years of leaning over engines, hauling parts, twisting wrenches until muscle carved itself into clean, hard lines. Water clings to the slope of them, running in thin rivulets down the defined curve of his pecs, catching on the small, dark peaks of his nipples, now tight and peaked from the cooler air.
A scar on his right side—thin, pale, jagged—cuts across his ribs like a lightning strike frozen in time. My fingers twitch, wanting to trace it, to feel the slight ridge of healed skin under my touch.
Lower, his stomach is a tight grid of muscle, abs flexing subtly as he shifts his weight. A single bead of water slips from his navel, traveling down the dark trail of hair that starts just below it, coarse, damp, arrowing straight beneath the towel like it's daring me to follow the line.
And the towel.Christ.
It's slung dangerously low, the damp terry cloth clinging to his hips like it's barely holding on. The sharp V of his obliques cuts deep, framing the low slant of muscle that disappears under the fabric.
The towel molds to him shamelessly, soaked enough to turn slightly translucent in places, outlining every thick inch of his cock—half-hard, heavy, the clear ridge of the head pressing against the fabric, the long, veined line of the shaft shifting as he moves. The weight of his balls is visible too, full and low, the faint shadow beneath making my mouth water and my throat close up all at once.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up.
Heat slams into me, pooling low in my gut and surging downward in a rush that leaves me dizzy. My mouth is suddenly bone-dry, lips parted as I drag in a shaky breath that tastes like him.
My cock throbs hard against the seam of my jeans, swelling fast, achingly full, the head already slick and leaking, soaking through my boxers in a warm, humiliating spot. Every heartbeat sends another pulse of blood south, making me throb harder, the friction of denim almost unbearable. My skin prickles, too hot, too tight, every nerve lit up and screaming for contact—for his hands, his mouth, the press of that hard body against mine.
I shift on the bed, thighs clenching involuntarily, and the movement drags the fabric across my erection, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure up my spine that nearly pulls a sound from my throat.
This is wrong.
No, this is fucking everything.
And I can't stop wanting it.
"Bathroom's free," Jay says casually, as if he hasn't just walked out half-naked and wrecked me completely.
"Thanks," I choke out.
He turns toward the dresser, giving me his back, and I should look away but I don't. I can't.
