Page 67 of Sour Notes

The sound of rushing water jerks me from my nap. Scanning the room, I almost fall off the bed the second my eyes connect with Mia’s naked body in the shower.

Yeah, her naked, wet body.

The fucking shower has a triangular window cut into the wall, which, given the black shower interior, I assumed was decorative.

It’s not.

Because why the hell would it be?

You can shower with a view of the sea—the perfect little detail when you’re staying with someone you love… to get naked.

As much as I’d love to get Mia naked, I, on the other hand, cannot.

And apparently, this place is set up to torture my very soul.

The water cuts off, and I panic-roll onto my stomach, squeezing my eyes shut, only to crush my dick in the process.

Fucking hellfire.

I swallow the undignified yelp dying to escape and try to breathe like a normal, sleeping person.

She’s entirely unaware, humming to herself, while I’m over here unraveling in the midst of a total mental breakdown.

As a cop, I plan for every eventuality, but the shower window's gonna be a whole-ass problem I haven’t planned for, so that’s a big, fucking fail.

We already had very little privacy, now we have none.

And forgive me for being crude, but I told myself I’d get through this trip with the occasional shower jerk off to break the fucking tension.

So now what?

My balls are so blue from today alone, James Cameron could probably write a whole-ass script about them—Avatar 4, The Load Unleashed.

The shrill ring of the phone on the bedside table rips through the room. My outstanding plan of faking—oh look, there’s that word again—sleep flies straight out the window.

Who the fuck uses hotel phones anymore? Can’t we just text? Are we still in the year 2000?

I’ve got a split second to decide what to do. Rolling onto my back, I stretch across the surprisingly spacious bed. Of course, Mia chooses that second to round the corner in what can only be described as a hand towel—yep, it’s that small—and grabs the phone, so my fingers graze her hand instead.

Ignoring the zing that runs up my arm, I sit up and obsessively study the ocean to avoid staring at the tempting little water drops traveling into her cleavage.

“Okay, we’ll be there in thirty.” She hangs up, and stops in front of me to riffle through her suitcase, full moon on display.

Jesus, I’ve seen this woman more naked today than ever before, and I’ve fucked her twice.

I need to get out of this room.

I’m sacrificing brain cells to my dick with the temptation that is Mia Georgiou this close.

She turns back to face me, her towel now only just covering her nipples.

Look at her eyes, not her tits.

Honest, Your Honor, I’m not this much of a horndog. Never have been.

I’m under the influence of a dumbass sex ban. No one warned me what deprivation does to a man.

Really, Your Honor… how many single, thirty-one-year-old men do you know who’ve locked down their main man for the better part of a year?