Probably. The man seemed capable of everything short of miracles. I'd have to ask. And while I was at it, I'd ask about his past. Where he'd served. What branch. What operations had shaped him into the efficient, unflappable operator masquerading as a butler.
Later.
Right now, I needed a shower.
Needed to wash away the night. The fights. The clinic. The café.
Her.
The water was scalding, steam filling the small bathroom until I could barely see my own hand in front of my face. I stood under the spray, letting heat cascade over sore muscles, washing away dried blood and sweat and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke from the underground club.
And inevitably, I thought of her.
Ella.
She'd said it out loud.
You.
No hesitation. No coy deflection. No teasing ambiguity or plausible deniability. Just raw honesty delivered with those sad, beautiful eyes locked on mine like I was the only person in the world who mattered in that moment.
I could still see the way her lips had curved when she said it. Not quite a smile. Something more honest than that. More vulnerable. Exposed in a way that made my chest tighten.
The way her pupils had dilated. The way her breath had caught slightly, like the admission had surprised even her. Like she'd meant to be more careful but couldn't help herself when I asked the question directly.
She wanted me.
And I—idiot that I was—had put her off.
Good to know.
What the fuck kind of response was that?
The response of a coward, that's what.
The response of a man who knew he should walk away but couldn't quite force himself to say no outright.
My hand drifted down almost without permission, wrapping around my cock.
I was hard. Had been since the café. Since before that, probably. Since the moment she'd looked at me in the clinic waiting room and I'd felt that jolt of recognition. Of want so immediate and primal it bypassed rational thought entirely.
I stroked once. Slow. Testing.
The friction felt good. Too good.
I did it again, letting my eyes close, letting the heat of the water and the steam blur the edges of reality until all that existed was sensation and memory.
I imagined her.
The way she'd look beneath me. Hair spread across white sheets like a halo. Eyes wide and dark and focused entirely on me. Lips parted. That careful composure finally, completely undone.
You.
The sounds she'd make when I touched her. Soft at first, tentative, then louder as I found the places that made her forget to be careful. Desperate. My name gasped out like a prayer.
You.
The way her body would arch when I pushed inside her for the first time. The way she'd grip my shoulders, nails digging in, holding on like I was the only solid thing in her world?—
