I surge forward, forming a fist with my hand. I had every intention of knocking on the door. Suddenly, it’s like I can’t speak again so it’s not like I can call out to him. Knocking should let him know that I’m out here, that I need the bathroom, but the moment my fist connects with the wood, the door flies inward.
It wasn’t locked. Connor didn’t lock this door.
Unable to stop myself, I peek inside.
Um. He’s not taking a shit.
He’s…
He’s…
A lump lodges in my throat. I hurriedly swallow it. The arousal that rises up in side of me, though? Yeah. That’s not going anywhere.
We’ve lived together for six months. The most I’ve seen of Connor Heyward’s body was his chest. I’d had a bit of a meltdown, throwing a plate of spaghetti and sauce at him. Before he started to clean it up, he removed his stained shirt to add to the growing laundry pile, and I was struck dumb by how gorgeous it was.
He has broad shoulders. Sculpted muscles. No hair on his chest save for a happy trail that disappeared inside of the khaki pants he was wearing that night. He was beautiful, and then he smirked to see that I was staring, and I retreated to my sanctuary.
I should probably do that now. I’m certainly staring at Connor now, only it’s not his chest that I’m seeing for the first time.
It’s his cock.
Connor is standing outside of the shower stall. One hand is braced against the glass sliding door. The other is pumping wildly, his fist traveling the length of his cock. He goes from root to tip repeatedly, stroking himself. His pants are wide open, shoved down enough that I can see a hint of his underwear and more than that of his ass cheek.
For a second, I stare at the inch-long scar right in the middle of the right one facing me. Shit. I did that. I marked his ass with his knife, and I watched the cheek jiggle from the force of his stroke before my eyes dart up again and I’m fascinated by how forcibly he handles his own flesh.
Does he know I’m here? His eyes are closed, his chin ducked down to his chest. Veins pop out of his neck. His jaw is tight. He’s so completely consumed by the act that… no. I don’t think he knows that I’m a witness to such an intimate act.
I should run away. I should hide in the panic room, pretending like I didn’t catch Connor masturbating.
And that’s when he mutters my name fiercely, the two syllables sounding like a fervent prayer right as his cock spits out thick, ropy jets of semen right on top of the toilet seat, and there’s no fucking way I’m sneaking away unseen as he dazedly blinks his eyes open.
Chest heaving notably, he turns his head in time to catch me gawking at him. His eyes go wide, and I whimper.
That breaks the spell. He moves to take a step toward me. He stumbles, knocking his leg into the toilet bowl thanks to the way his pants are down past his ass. With a curse, he grabs the hem of his jeans, yanking them up all while I stand there like a deer in headlights.
“Haven.” This time my name is a groan. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
Obviously.
"I… I didn't know it wasn't locked," I whisper.
"That was my fault. I’m sorry, baby." He quickly takes hold of himself, tucking it back in under the waistband of his underwear. That done, he reaches for me.
I jump back.
He curses under his breath before turning to the tap, washing his hands as quickly as he tucked himself out of sight.
I’m sorry, baby…
“Don’t be sorry.”
The words are ripped out of me.
Connor freezes. "You okay?"
I nod, though the way my freaked-out eyes go to the come messing up the toilet says otherwise.
“Fuck. Shit.Haven.” Connor grabs one of the handtowels, getting it damp, wiping up the mess. He starts to add it to the bathroom hamper, pauses, then balls it up in his fist. “Forget it. Okay? Don’t think this means I expect anything from you. When you’re ready, I’ll…” He stops short. Swallows.Grins. “Haven, sweetheart… that look on your face. Like youlikedwhat you saw… oh, love.” He slowly begins to prowl toward me. “You are ready, aren’t you?”
