The water starts cold, blasting from the showerhead like icy needles against my skin as I step under it. I gasp, arms wrapping around my torso, but I force myself to stay.
The chill bites into my nipples, hardening them to peaks, and goosebumps race over my arms and legs. It’s supposed to help, to numb the slickness still leaking from me, but as the water cascades down, my mind wanders back to him.
Jude, dancing with me—his body pressed to mine, hips grinding in time with the music. His leather jacket brushing my arms, rough and warm from his heat.
My hand drifts down without thinking, fingers sliding over my stomach, lower, to the slick folds between my legs. I’m so wet, the cold water mixing with my arousal, making everything slippery.
I really need to get laid. Last night was innocent. It was a fun night. Why the hell is my body misconstruing everything?
Where is all this need coming from?
I lean against the tiled wall, the spray hitting my clit in rhythmic pulses from the adjustable jet. It feels good, too good, and I adjust the setting, directing the stream right there, a steady pressure that makes my knees buckle.
In my head, it’s Jude’s hands on me, not mine. He’s dancing closer, his mouth at my ear, whispering something filthy as he grinds his cock against my ass. And then Dorian watching from the shadows, his eyes dark and hungry.
Would he be jealous? Would he just watch? See Jude’s hands roaming my body, stripping off my clothes while I arch into it?
The thought sends a jolt through me, and I circle my clit with my fingers, massaging in tight, firm strokes. The jet pounds against me, relentless, and I moan, the sound echoing off the tiles.
Pressed between them. Jude in front, his leather-clad chest against my breasts, Dorian behind, his hands gripping my hips.
They’d move together, sandwiching me, cocks hard and teasing through our clothes. Jude’s mouth on mine, rough kisses that taste like whiskey, while Dorian nips at my neck, his breath hot despite the cold water.
My fingers dip inside now, two sliding in easily, pumping as I imagine them taking turns, filling me up. The slickness coats myhand, and I add a third finger, stretching, the burn mixing with the chill until I’m panting.
But then Ryker slips into the fantasy. Always the broody one, reserved and silent in the corner. Would he watch? See me being fucked, my body writhing, pussy clenching around them?
Or would he join, that quiet intensity breaking as he steps forward, his hands rough from whatever manual work he does, claiming a piece of me?
What is wrong with me?
The thought twists in my gut, shame and heat warring as I rub my clit harder, the jet’s pressure building that coil tighter.
I come undone like that—fingers buried deep, massaging my g-spot while the water assaults my clit.
My orgasm crashes over me, walls fluttering around my fingers, slick gushing out to mix with the spray. I cry out, legs shaking, bracing against the wall as waves pull me under, leaving me breathless and spent.
The water runs cold for a few more minutes, shocking me back to reality, before I shut it off. I towel dry, skin pink and sensitive, and slip into a loose T-shirt and panties.
Back in bed, the sheets still rumpled from my restless night, I spot it—Jude’s leather jacket, draped over the chair.
Without thinking, I grab it, pulling it close. I bury my face in the collar, inhaling deep. Warm vanilla. It’s everywhere—subtle, soothing, wrapping around me like a hug.
Why does it calm me?
My heart slows, the throb fading to a gentle hum, and I curl up with it, letting the scent lull me back to sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dorian
The morning lightslants through the kitchen window, catching the steam off the coffee pot. It’s early. I can hear the snowplow somewhere down the road, the hum of tires against ice.
My mother sits at the table in her robe, spooning sugar into her cup like she’s trying to sweeten the silence between us.
She doesn’t look at me when she says, “You’re mad at me.”
“I’m not,” I answer, sliding a plate of toast her way.
