I could have touched her.
Run my hands down her back. Over the curve of her waist. Lower.
Her ass.
Christ.
I've thought about her ass more times than I can count. The way it looked in that yoga pants she was wearing back then around the compound. The way it would feel in my hands. Soft. Full. Perfect.
My cock stirs.
I ignore it.
Try to ignore it.
The water keeps running. I keep scooping. Keep pouring.
But the images won't stop.
Marina on top of me. Marina underneath me. Marina on her knees. Marina with her back arched and her mouth open and my name on her lips.
Fuck.
I'm hard now. Fully hard.
Every time my mind drifted to her—and it drifted often—I ended up like this. Hard. Aching. Desperate.
And every time, I did the same thing.
I took myself in hand and thought about her until I came.
In my apartment. In the shower.
The thought of doing it here—in her bathroom, in her tub, with her just on the other side of that door—makes me harder.
I shouldn't.
I know I shouldn't.
But my hand is already moving. Wrapping around my cock. Squeezing.
Fuck.
The relief is immediate. Sharp. Almost painful.
I stroke once. Twice.
My eyes close.
I see her.
Marina on the bed. Her hair spread across the pillow. Her lips parted. Her eyes dark with want.
Dante.
My name in her mouth. The way she'd say it. Breathless. Needy.
I stroke faster.
