That doesn't mean I have to like it.
I still have every right to be pissed.
I shut the water off and stand there dripping for a second, listening to the quiet rush back into the house. My heartbeat finally slows enough that I can breathe without it stuttering.
I wrap a towel around myself and wipe the fog from the mirror with my forearm.
My eyes look tired.
I make my way down the hall barefoot, damp hair clinging to my back, towel tucked tight around my chest. The bedroom door is cracked open. “N.h.i.e.” is playing softly in our room.
Seth is already inside.
He is laid back on the bed, shoulders pressed into the mattress like he owns the space, hips positioned right at the edge. His feet are planted on the floor, knees spread just enough to keep himself open, exposed. His sweats hang low on his hips, barely there, the fabric pushed down far enough to show the full length of him.
One hand rests behind his head, relaxed, almost casual. The other is wrapped around his dick, working himself with slow, unhurried strokes like he has all the time in the world.
He looks up when I step in. His mouth tilts.
“Hey.”
My pulse jumps straight into my throat.
He is still bruised. There is dried blood along his hairline, streaked down toward his temple, catching in the edges of his stubble. His lip is split, slightly swollen. The ice pack sits abandoned on the nightstand, already forgotten.
He doesn't stop touching himself.
My towel suddenly feels too heavy. And my pussy feels too wet despite the anger sitting in my chest.
“What are you doing?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
His eyes drag over me, slow and thorough, taking in every inch of damp skin. “Trying to take my mind off the concussion. Doctor’s orders.”
I snort despite myself.
“That is not what he said.”
He gives one slow pump of his hand, deliberate enough that I can see the way his grip tightens, the way his cock jumps slightly in response. “He said to avoid stress.”
My gaze drops before I can stop it.
He is so thick and hard. The head flushed darker, already slick, catching the low light every time his hand moves. My stomach tightens as I watch him, heat pooling low and fast, my body reacting before I can even pretend I'm still just angry.
My thighs press together for half a second before I stop myself.
I should still be pissed. I am still pissed.
But the way he looks right now, bruised, blood still on him, sitting there like he knows exactly what he does to me, it makes my pulse spike harder.
My gaze drops again, slower this time. I track the movement of his hand, the steady drag of his grip, the way his body responds to it. His stomach tightens, his hips pushing up just enough to chase the friction.
I can feel it between my thighs, already slick, already aching for him. My body gives in before my brain can catch up, pulling me toward him like a magnet, like it doesn’t care about anything except the way he feels inside me.
I want him.
I want him inside me, deep enough to shut everything else out. I want to feel him stretch me open, make me forget the fear, the waiting, the way my chest locked up when I thought he wasn’t coming back.
Focus, Brooke. Don't let him off that easily. Don't fall for his cock sorcery.
