Oh God.
My face burns at the memory. I'd tried not to look. Really tried. But it had been impossible to miss, that massive bulge, thick and hard and so obviously there because of me. Because I'd been standing between his legs, touching his face, holding his hands.
He'd been hard. For me.
The thought makes something clench low in my belly. Makes my thighs press together as I scrub at a bloodstain that's already clean.
I need to stop and focus.
But I can't focus. Can't stop replaying every second of those minutes in the storage room. The way he'd gripped the chair like he was holding himself back. The strained sound of his voice when he'd told me to leave. The way he'd apologized for being turned on.
*I can't help it. You're just—*
He hadn't finished that sentence. Hadn't said what I was. But the evidence had been right there, thick and throbbing and impossible to ignore.
A man like Danny Cross. Hard. For me.
I still can't quite believe it.
Ten years in prison, he'd said. The rumors were true. Ten fucking years. That's the part I should be fixating on. The part that should have me running for the exit. Because people don't go to prison for ten years for minor offenses. That's serious time. Violent crime time.
He's dangerous. Actually, genuinely dangerous. Not just in the ring but out of it too.
I should have asked what he did. Should have demanded to know before I let myself get within five feet of him. Before I stood between his legs and touched his face and pretended my hands weren't shaking for entirely different reasons than they'd been three nights ago.
But I hadn't asked. Couldn't bring myself to. Because some part of me—some stupid, reckless part, didn't want to know. Didn't want the answer to change the way he'd looked at me. The way he'd protected me. The way he'd let me take care of him.
Prison.
Does that explain it? Did ten years without a woman make him desperate enough that even someone like me: chubby, tired, a single mom with stretch marks and dark circles under her eyes was enough to get his blood rushing south?
The thought stings more than it should.
I dunk the mop in the bucket, water sloshing over the sides. My reflection ripples on the surface. Distorted, unrecognizable. That's how I feel right now. Like I don't recognize myself. Likethe woman who just spent ten minutes in a storage room with a violent ex-con, getting wet from the sight of his erection, isn't actually me.
Except it is me. And I am wet.
God, I'm so wet it's uncomfortable. My panties are soaked, clinging to me, and every movement reminds me of it. Reminds me that my body doesn't care about Danny's past or his violence or how completely wrong this is. My body just knows what it wants.
And apparently, what it wants is him.
I risk a glance toward his corner.
He's still there. Still facing the wall. Hasn't moved since I left the storage room fifteen minutes ago. His shoulders are tense, hands braced against the concrete like he's holding himself up. Or holding himself back.
Is he thinking about it too? About the way we'd been so close? About what might have happened if I hadn't left?
My thighs clench together again and I force myself to focus on the floor. On my job. On literally anything else.
One of the cleaners passes by with a trash bag. "You okay, Joanna? You're looking a little flushed."
"I'm fine," I say too quickly. "Just warm."
He gives me a skeptical look but doesn't push it. "If you say so. Almost done here anyway."
Right. Almost done. Then I can go home, crawl into bed next to Daisy, and try to forget that Danny Cross exists.
Try. And fail spectacularly.
