"Fair enough." He backs toward the hallway. "I'll be quick. Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen."
Then he's gone, and I can finally breathe again.
I pour myself coffee with shaking hands and lean against the counter. He's across the hall in the shower. Naked. Wet. Soap sliding over all those muscles I just watched working in the corral.
My hand slides down to press against my aching pussy through the sweatpants before I can stop myself. The shower turns on. I hear the water running, hear the bathroom door close.
I could touch myself right here. Right now. Could bring myself off while he's just yards away, could imagine it's his hands instead of mine, could finally ease this desperate ache.
But I don't. Because I have some shred of self-control left. Some tiny piece of dignity.
Instead, I drink my coffee and try to think about anything other than Boone Sullivan naked and wet and soapy.
I fail spectacularly at that, too.
Chapter 6 - Boone
I take the coldest shower of my life, and it does absolutely nothing to help.
My cock is still hard. My mind is still full of images I shouldn't have. Nicole standing at my window in my flannel, the fabric barely covering her ass. Nicole with her short blonde hair messy from sleep. Nicole looking at me like she wants something she won't ask for.
Or maybe I'm imagining that last part. Projecting my own desperate need onto her because the alternative, that she feels nothing, is unbearable.
I scrub myself roughly, trying to wash away the sweat and the want. The water runs cold over my overheated skin, but it doesn't touch the heat pooling in my gut. Doesn't ease the ache in my balls. Doesn't make me stop thinking about her.
She was watching me from the window. I saw her silhouette, saw the way she jumped back when I turned toward the cottage. She was watching me ride, and I don't know what that means but I can't stop thinking about it.
I can't stop imagining her looking at me the way I look at her when she's not paying attention. Can't stop hoping that maybe, just maybe, I'm not alone in this. But even if she does feel something, it doesn't change anything. She wants to leave. I'm staying. End of story.
I finish showering and dry off, pulling on clean jeans and a faded flannel shirt. My knuckles are still split from punching Jason, the bruises starting to purple. Worth it. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
When I emerge, the smell of coffee hits me. Nicole's in the kitchen, wearing my clothes, looking like she belongs here. The morning light streaming through the windows makes her glow. It turns her blonde hair almost golden, highlights the curves I'm trying so hard not to notice, makes her absolutely fucking radiant.
She's beautiful. Has always been beautiful. But standing in my kitchen, in my clothes, bathed in sunlight? She's devastating.
I want her so badly I can barely think straight.
"Morning," I manage.
"Morning. Coffee's ready."
"Thanks." I pour myself a cup and lean against the counter. "Sleep okay?"
"Fine." She's lying. I can tell. "You?"
"Well enough." Also lying.
We're both liars, standing in my kitchen drinking coffee, pretending last night didn't change something fundamental between us.
"I was thinking," she starts, not meeting my eyes. "I should probably head home soon. Get my car, face reality, all that fun stuff."
"You don't have to rush."
"I know. But I can't hide here forever."
*Yes, you can.* "Whenever you're ready. No pressure."
She nods, sipping her coffee. The flannel has slipped off her shoulder again, showing smooth skin I want to taste. I force my eyes back to my cup.
