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I pad down the hallway, bare feet silent on the floorboards, the hem of my soft pajama shorts brushing the tops of my thighs. The house is deadly quiet, save for the soft rush of water from behind his bedroom door.

He’s still up. That’s good.

Maybe he’s getting ready for bed, or answering some late-night emergency call from one of his A-list clients. Either way, I remind myself not to get on his bad side. We’re at a détente. Let’s keep it that way.

I raise my hand to knock on his door, but that’s when I hear it.

A low, guttural moan, followed by the soft rhythm of water hitting tile.

I freeze, my mouth suddenly dry. Because it’s not just a moan. It’s his moan. Thick and rough, like a man on the edge.

Maybe it’s because I’m feeling connected to him. Or because he stumbled upon me earlier in exactly the same situation. Whatever it is, I push the door open.

His bedroom is dim, the lights low and golden. It smells like cedar and clean laundry and him. I only hesitate a second before I step inside.

“West?” I call softly, stepping into his room.

But there’s no reply. Just the sound of the water against tile and something… more.

Dirtier.

My entire body flushes.

The bathroom door’s half open, with steam curling through the gap. The light inside is soft and golden.

I know I shouldn’t look. Iknowthat.

But then I hear another low groan, deeper this time. Closer to breaking. And my feet just… move. I inch forward until I can see through the steamed-up glass.

And there he is. The right side of his back is angled toward me. He has one hand braced against the wall. His head tilted back. I can just see his profile in the steam. His other hand is wrapped around himself, stroking with long, firm pulls that make my stomach twist in the most delicious way.

He looks like something from a dream. A dirty kind of dream that would leave me hot and clammy.

His body is all muscle and tension, water sliding down his chest, his jaw tight, his abs flexing with every stroke.

I can’t look away. And God help me, I don’t want to.

My thighs press together, the ache building fast, like my body is trying to match his rhythm.

And then, right when I think it can’t get any more intense, he starts to come. His head tipped back, his back arching, and my legs are so weak I think I’m about to fall.

My body clenches as he releases, his chest rising, his throat working around a curse I can’t quite hear.

And then I realize, he’s going to turn around any minute now. He can’t see me here, he can’t.

I step back, panicked, stumbling on his carpet like I’ve already been caught, and turn blindly, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug, only managing to steady myself on the dresser in the last moment.

That’s when I see it. A photo in the silver frame. It wasn’t there the other day.

It’s of a woman I don’t recognized. Beautiful, dark haired, her smile wide and warm.

And I feel so stupid. Because for one foolish second I thought he was thinking about me as he touched himself. But of course he wasn’t.

I don’t know who this woman is. A lover from L.A.? Something more? He wouldn’t have a random hook-ups photo on his dresser. Which means whoever she is, she matters to him.

And I don’t.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment. For a moment, just a moment, I thought he might be thinking about me. I thought… oh god, I need to stop thinking.