I strip off my shirt first.It clings damply to my back, a reminder of the rain or maybe the sweat I hadn’t noticed.My skin feels too tight, too sensitive.Every inch of me is tense, wired, restless.
I shove down my sweats, underwear going with them, and, fuck.
My cock’s already hard—angry, full, aching in a way that has nothing to do with release and everything to do with her.It bobs against my stomach, shameless, twitching like it’s just waiting for permission.
I glance at the mirror and regret it right away.
I look wrecked.
Wrecked and ready.
Immediately, I enter the shower because I’m not going to be analyzing what’s happening to me.The water hits me before I’m even fully inside—hot, punishing, loud enough that it almost drowns out my thoughts.Almost.
Because she’s still there, on the back of my eyelids.In the curve of my palm.
In the ache low in my stomach that refuses to fade, no matter how much steam fills the room.I brace a hand against the tile, bow my head under the spray, and try to breathe, but all I see is her standing barefoot, lips parted, tank top almost plastered to her skin.
All I hear is the soft way she said,Are you okay?
Like I was someone worth asking.
My body reacts before my brain can form a coherent thought.It’s pointless to fight it—my pulse already surging, my breath uneven.
I wrap my hand around myself, the familiar ache tightening low as I drag my thumb over the tip, slow enough to feel every nerve snap awake, desperate for more.The pressure sends a rush through me, hard enough to steal what little control I thought I had.
I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting the images to disappear.They don’t.She moves in my mind the way she moved on the balcony—slow, fluid, intentional, like her entire body was a quiet invitation.
Fuck.I can almost feel her.
Her mouth against my throat.
Her fingers pushing into my hair.
Her breath catching when I slide my hands over her hips and pull her closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of her through those damned leggings she shouldn’t look that good in.
The fantasy won’t stop.It digs in deeper, turns molten.I pull myself harder, my hand stroking with the same rhythm I imagine using on her—her body rising to meet mine, her breath catching every time I push in.I hear her voice in my ear, breaking on my name, needy and close enough to drag me under.
I picture the way she’d open for me—her back arching, her thighs trembling as she pulls me deeper.The way she’d grab at me, frantic, like she can’t decide whether she wants to hold on or pull me farther in.Letting me take.Letting me lose myself in her like it’s the only place I’ve ever fit.
My grip on the tile tightens, knuckles burning.The water isn’t helping.The heat is making everything worse.I’m strung tight, restless, my body wired and ready to snap.Every nerve ending is alive, begging for the moment I finally let go—even in this fantasy, even with her only in my head—because the thought of being inside her is enough to drag release dangerously close.
I let out a low, frustrated sound—half curse, half surrender.I am in trouble.
Big fucking trouble.
Because this isn’t just lust.
It’s longing.
It’s want—consuming.
Somehow stupid.
Somehow hopeful.
And that terrifies me more than the desire itself.
I press my forehead to my forearm, water pouring down my back in relentless sheets, trying to rinse away something that refuses to dissolve.
