“Goodnight,” I say, not even giving her a chance to say it back. I practically run in the opposite direction.
Back in my room, I kick off my boots and drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard.
Then I freeze.
Because…the windows.
Floor-to-ceiling glass. Clean. Unforgiving. And right now they’re offering a perfect, crystal-clear view straight into the guest wing.
Into the room Max is in.
I forgot to tell her how to draw the curtains. Since my mother is usually the only one who stays here, it slipped my mind that Max wouldn't know about the unobstructed view.
She’s standing with her back to me, shirt halfway off, skin warm in the low light.
My flannel in her hands.
Fuck.
I whip around like the glass burned me, heart pounding like I just committed a crime. This place was supposed to be my sanctuary. My shield. Instead, it’s putting temptation on display with a spotlight.
I move too fast, nearly slipping on the tile, and stumble my way into the bathroom like my sanity is dangling by a thread.
Cold water. That’s the only option.
I crank the handle and step under it, letting the shock slam into me. I press my forehead to the wall and breathe through it and let the freeze bite into my skin.
I deserve it.
Because I’m not just picturing her in my shirt.
I’m picturing her without it.
That’s what has my chest tight, my breath catching, and on the verge of fucking tears.
It’s been a long time since someone made me feel…anything.
And it terrifies me.
I finally give in and let the water warm. It doesn’t mean I’m fine. I’m nowhere near over it. I scrub my face like I can wash her out of my head. Her sharp tongue, those legs, those eyes that see too much and won’t let me hide.
My hand slides lower, and I don’t even pretend I’m going to stop.
I’m already hard. Tight. My chest rising like I’ve run ten miles, and all it takes is the image of her on her knees—looking up at me with that fierce stare, lips parted as I press the head of my need against her parted lips.
She wouldn’t take all of me. Not even close. And that’s the point. Watching her try. Watching her struggle. Feeling her limits break as I push past her boundaries.
It’s addictive.
She’s under my skin.
One second I’m clenching my jaw to keep from snapping at her, and the next I’m a breath away from begging her to do ungodly things to me. To choose me. To stay.
Five fucking hours. Who is she?
I stroke harder. Faster. My jaw locks, every muscle pulled tight as I chase the high like it might burn her out of me. It won’t. I know it won’t. But I’m too far gone to care.
I see her everywhere here. In my space. In my life. In my kitchen—bare legs, my shirt sliding off one shoulder like she belongs in this house…like she belongs to me.
