Apparently, four years hadn’t changed the way he affected me as much as I’d hoped.
I moved to my bed and sank onto the edge of the mattress. It was my night off from work, which meant I should’ve been able to relax and let my body recover. Instead, anger swirled inside me.
I had a life I enjoyed. A routine that worked for me. I trained, worked at the bar, fought on the regional circuit, and was gradually building toward something bigger. It might not have been much yet, but I had goals and dreams—things that didn’t involve someone from my past coming back and fucking everything up again.
The problem was, I wasn’t just angry. That would have been easy to handle. I could go to the gym and work out my frustrations in the ring.
What I’d felt in that bathroom—and was still feeling—was more complicated than that. It was the regret and desire stirred up by memories of times when things had been good between us, and the happiness that had come with planning a future together. Just because he hurt me in the end didn’t erase everything I’d felt up until that moment.
I tossed the nail polish onto my dresser, no longer in the mood to fix my chipped polish. Instead, I stripped down to my boxers and crawled into bed. If I wanted any shot at sleep, I needed something to take the edge off. Calling someone for a quick hookup crossed my mind, but that sounded like too much effort.
I pushed the waistband of my underwear down past my hips and fisted my shaft.
My hand started to move, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to think of anything other than the man on the other side of the door. I’d gone out with Douglas recently, so I tried to picture him, tried to summon the image of his body beneath mine. But it was like trying to start a fire with wet wood. The memory was doing almost nothing, and I remained soft, my body unaroused despite my efforts.
“Fuck,” I muttered, letting my hand fall away in frustration.
So pathetic. I was twenty-two years old, and I couldn’t even get myself off because my head was too full of someone I hated. Anger simmered low in my gut, but it was tangled with something else—something I refused to explore. I needed a release, and the only person who seemed able to fix it was the one person I couldn’t stand.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my body full of tension. Knowing that if I allowed myself to picture the guy I’d just seen in the bathroom, it would break my resolve.
Thinking about how hot he was now rather than thinking of the past we shared, I wrapped my fingers around myself with a firm grip and tried again. I imagined Rowan reaching for me and instantly my dick hardened. My hips arched into the touch, a silent plea for more. He chuckled, a low, confident sound I’d always loved hearing. His fingers brushed against the sensitive spot just under the head of my cock, and I nearly lost my mind.
I stroked myself faster as I pictured him jerking me off. Pressure built fast followed by a familiar tightening in my balls. The anger was still there, but it had morphed into a raw need that fueled my movements. I hated him for this. Hated him for being the only one who could make me feel this way, even after four years. Hated him for ruining everything. But fuck, I wantedhim. There had never been a time I didn’t want him, despite how often I tried to forget.
My back arched off the bed, a groan tearing from my throat as my release hit hard. Spurts of hot, sticky cum covered my hand and stomach. I kept pumping my dick, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until I was panting into the silence of my room.
For a moment, the sound of my ragged breathing was all I could hear. Then the shame came crashing in. I stared at the mess on my stomach, proof of my weakness. I’d tried to fight it, but I’d lost.
Rowan Cross had been back in my life for less than a week, and somehow, he had me thinking about him like some lovesick teenager.
I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and cleaned myself up before settling back against the pillows.
No denying it anymore. I was completely and utterly fucked.
By the timemorning rolled around, I’d convinced myself that the best way to move forward was to pretend that the moment in the bathroom—and in my bed—hadn’t happened.
That plan lasted about five minutes.
The second I stepped into the kitchen, my gaze immediately landed on Rowan, who was at the island eating breakfast. Heat crept up my neck before I could stop it, and my mind flashed to the image of my hand wrapped around my dick the night before.
Fuck my life.
Mason looked up from the stove and smiled. “Morning.”
That caused Rowan to glance in my direction, but I ignored him and mumbled, “Morning,” back to Mason as I moved toward the refrigerator.
Derek sat at the small dining table, scrolling through his phone, while Enzo sat next to Rowan with a mug in his hands, looking much more awake than the rest of us.
I pulled out my overnight oats and shut the fridge. “Morning,” I said, nodding toward them before joining Derek, and digging into my food.
As I shoveled the first bite into my mouth, I couldn’t help but notice the state of the kitchen. Empty beer bottles sat near the sink, and an open pizza box was on the counter. Usually, I’d ignore it or throw everything into the recycling bin without a second thought. But before I could do anything, Rowan rinsed his plate, put it in the dishwasher, and then started cleaning up the mess.
Those small movements pulled my attention to him whether I wanted it to or not. I remembered his house growing up and how everything had always been neat and orderly. Rowan used to say it was what his dad expected since he was a military man.
Apparently, that was true for Rowan as well.
Derek noticed him tidying up and grinned. “Relax. We’ll clean it later.”
