Page 46 of The Encore’s Crown

I push off the door and head for the bathroom. Take a shower, find a distraction. That’s the obvious answer.

I turn on some music with my phone and it fills the room. A heavy, distorted guitar I don’t recognize from whatever playlist Ronan sent me last week. I turn it up, loud enough to bury her voice. So much noise that I won’t hear myself thinking. I strip off my shirt and toss it toward the sink but it misses and lands on the floor. The mirror catches the marks along my skin, a faint red crescent at my shoulder, her doing. I touch it and shake my head.

“Fucking crocodile.”

I turn away before I can keep staring and shove my jeans down, taking my boxers with them. The second I’m naked, there’s no pretending I’m unaffected. I’m standing at full attention, my whole body still fixed on her like she’s in the room with me instead of somewhere down the hall. I look down at myself and let out a humorless laugh.

“Jesus Christ.”

Then I step into the shower and crank the water as hot as it’ll go. Hot enough to sting, to try and burn the memories out.

I step beneath the spray, the water slams against the back of my neck and runs over my shoulders. I brace both hands against the tile, head lowered, letting the heat beat into me. For several seconds, it works. There’s only water, music and the sting against the places she scratched and marked me.

Then my brain betrays me. Her mouth on my throat, the lazy drag of her lips against my skin. Her smile when she felt what she was doing to me. I go to turn the water hotter but I forgot it's already maxed out.

I see her in the shower with me, blonde hair darkened by the water, eyeliner smudged down her cheeks, nothing polished left. Her hands on my chest, mouth at my collarbone. Her body pressing close because Natalia doesn't seem to understand the concept of leaving space between herself and something she wants. I drop my forehead against the tile.

“ l-ngi l-ngeu. (Mindless idiot)”

The music changes and the bass comes in hard enough to vibrate through the counter. It reminds me of the rhythm she found against my hand. I squeeze my eyes shut but I can still feel her. The trembling in her thighs. The way she went from trying to control every sound to saying my name like it was the only word she knew.

My blood feels too hot for my skin, so I try to breathe through it.

In.

I could've had her, felt her.

Out.

She wanted me.

In.

I did the right thing.

Out

I fucking hate the right thing.

My hand closes into a fist against the tile. I imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t pulled back and let her touch me the way she wanted. If I'd rolled her beneath me and stopped pretending there was anything respectful about the way I’ve wanted her since that first message.

The image changes, now she's kneeling in front of me. Looking up through wetted lashes, water pouring over the curves of her body, those hands stroking me slowly with the same focused curiosity she used when tracing my tattoos. Her lips gently teasing the head of my dick. My body jerks at the thought.

I force my eyes open to see that steam has swallowed room, everything beyond the shower has disappeared. The cloudy haze is the only witness to me losing my mind over a woman I keep insisting I can walk away from.

I tell myself to stop, but I don’t.

The fantasy finally takes over.

Natalia’s mouth against my stomach, her fingers hooked around my hips, nails digging into me. I can see her looking up at me with that wicked little smile she gets whenever she knows she’s found one of my weaknesses before she takes me into her mouth. My hand moves before I’ve made a conscious decision, I grip myself and move in steady strokes, chasing the feeling she's left me with. Relief cuts through me so hard that my knees nearly give.

“Fuck.”

The word disappears beneath the music and water as I grip the tile harder with my other hand.

Every thought is her, mouth open, tongue pressed against my length. Then the look on her face when I first touched her and she realized I wasn’t going to make her feel ashamed for needing it. She needed me, wanted me inside of her. The way she went soft after she came, all those claws retracted and that stubborn fury temporarily gone. I'd done that to her, I'd brought it out of her. Made her weak for me.

That shouldn't be the thing that pushes me closest to losing control but it is. The memory of her pleasure blends with every version of what I denied myself. Her hand replacing mine, then her hips settling over me, taking what she wants without waiting for permission because she already knows I'd give her anything. I can almost feel her fingers in my hair and I swear to god I can hear her laugh when my control finally breaks.