I head straight into the bathroom, flick the light on, and lock the door behind me.I strip my clothes off, each piece feeling toxic, soaked in too much of her, and I can’t fucking stand it on my skin.I turn on the shower, wait just long enough for the water to steam, then step in.The second the spray hits, scalding hot, hissing against my skin, I don’t flinch.I need it.I need something to sting, something sharp enough to cut through the chaos clawing inside my chest.
But it doesn’t help.
Not even close.
My cock’s still pulsing, acting on its own.It’s hers now, not mine.Tuned to the curve of her mouth, the sound of her breath when I get too close, the way her eyes burned through me, full of intention, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
I brace a hand on the wall, my forehead pressed to the tile, and wrap my tattooed hand around my cock.The first stroke is rough.Too rough…but I don’t fucking care.I need to feel something.Need to burn the tension out of me, to claw back some kind of control.
But there’s no escaping Emery.
Every thought slams into me with every movement of my hand… her lips, her neck, the way she looked at me, as if I’m something more than just a fucked-up mess.As if I could be wanted.
I jerk harder, faster, water pounding down my back, heat coiling low in my gut, a fuse burning fast.There’s no rhythm.No control.Just raw, reckless need—filthy and fucking furious.
Every part of me is aching, coiled tight, chasing that high like I’m starving for it.
“Fuck…” I grit out, teeth clenched, hips snapping forward into my fist, desperate for more—more friction, more feeling, more of anything that’ll drown out the rest.
And then it hits.
I come with a guttural noise torn straight from my chest.It’s loud and broken.A punishment ripped from somewhere deep.There’s nothing soft about it—nothing slow.It hits hard, a goddamn explosion, hot and violent, splattering across the wall, the water washing it away before I’ve even caught my breath.
I stand there after, braced against the tile, chest heaving, water pounding down over me like it’s trying to wash away everything I just felt.
But it can’t.
Because Emery’s still there.Burned into every fucking inch of me.And no amount of release is enough to make her disappear.
Steam curls around me, but I don’t move.My head stays bowed, hand still gripping the wall—the only thing keeping me upright.My heart’s still pounding, even after unloading every ounce of want that’s been building inside me since the moment she walked back into my life.
But it didn’t help.
The ache’s still there, low in my gut, my body knowing exactly what my mind’s trying to bury.Because no matter how hard I came, I still fucking want her.Not just her body.Not just the sound of her gasp when I get too close.I want all of her.The parts she hides.The pieces she doesn’t give to anyone.The parts I used to know better than my own skin… and all the new ones that scare the shit out of me, because they don’t belong to me anymore.
I shut the water off, and the silence in the bathroom hits hard, a punch to the chest.I grab the towel off the hook, dragging it over my face, down my tattooed chest.It’s rough and fast, as if I can scrub the need off my skin.
I throw on a clean pair of jeans and yank a shirt over my head, still damp.My hand hesitates on the doorknob to my bedroom, jaw tight.For a second, I consider locking it.Staying in here.Hiding from her.From myself.
Instead, I open the door to my bedroom, and head downstairs.Every step is heavier than it should be.Like gravity’s doubled just to fuck with me.When I hit the last step, I see her.She’s still, curled up on the couch, bathed in firelight, A soft blanket draped over her legs.Her eyes watching the flames.
She exhales slowly, and when she speaks, it’s soft.Almost like she’s talking to the flames instead of me.
“Did he really sell me out?”
She doesn’t look at me.Doesn’t need to.Because that question, it’s not just about betrayal.It’s about every moment that led her here.Every scar her father carved into her life when he handed her over like she was some bargaining chip.
“Yeah,” I say. “He did.”
She doesn’t flinch.Doesn’t cry.Doesn’t even fucking move.Just stares into the flames, trying to convince herself that saying it out loud will dull the truth.But her jaw’s tight, her grip on the blanket tighter—every muscle straining to hold herself in one piece.Because if she lets go, she won’t survive the break.
“When?”she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Two days ago.”
The silence hums, sharp enough to cut.She keeps her eyes on the fire, holding steady, because looking away might be the thing that finally breaks her.
“How?”A pause.“How did he sell me out?”
