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I force myself to walk to the door, each step heavier than the last.

By the time I make it into my own apartment, my hands are still shaking. The echo of her lips is everywhere on my skin, in my bloodstream, seared into the roof of my goddamn mouth. I close the door behind me, lock it out of habit, and just stand there a second, letting the silence crowd in.

I rip my T-shirt off and head straight for the shower. The floor is freezing under my feet, a jolt that doesn’t even register against the noise in my head.

I strip the rest of the way and step under the spray, cranking the dial to Arctic. Water slams down on me, and I brace my forearm against the tile, drop my head, and let it hammer the back of my neck. It should shock me back to myself, but it doesn’t do a damn thing. My mind is stuck on repeat. The way she whimpered when I deepened the kiss. The heat of her fingers in my shirt. The feel of her melting against me like she'd never even thought about pulling away.

My cock is so goddamn hard, it hurts.

I want her. The real, desperate kind of wanting that doesn’t care how old I am or what bullshit stories I’ve been telling myself about being happy all alone.

Fuck. I brace both hands against the slick tile and squeeze my eyes shut, fighting to get a grip. The water’s so cold it should hurt, but all I feel is a full-body burn that doesn’t let up. My cock is stone-hard, throbbing, practically begging for relief. I grit my teeth.

I wrap my hand around my cock and stroke, slow at first, then rougher, chasing the ache. I can’t stop thinking about her. Iris, all soft curves and blue eyes, wild hair spilling down her shoulders when I finally get my hands in it. The way she looked up at me, lips swollen from my kiss, like I was the only thing she saw. Fuck. My grip tightens, and the next pump has my hips bucking forward, desperate for friction.

All I want is to spread her out on my sheets and taste her everywhere. I want to hear her making sweet little whimpers when she’s coming apart for me. I want to see her lose that shy smile, tipping her head back and moaning my name. Christ, I want to ruin her for anyone else.

I jerk off, fist working my cock hard and fast. Every muscle in my body is strung tight, like I’m seconds from snapping. I imagine her on her knees in front of me, blue eyes wide, that sassy mouth parted, looking at me like I’m the only man in the world. The only man who’s ever mattered.

Fuck. I want her so bad my brain just blanks out.

I stroke my cock harder as she fills my mind. I picture her naked and flushed, squirming on my bed, begging for my hands, her sweet pussy slick and desperate for me. I want to pin her wrists, spread her out, and make her come until she sobs. I want to own her, body and soul. Every fucking inch.

An orgasm tears through me, brutal and raw, and I groan her name into the steam. The world goes white around the edges. For a second, every muscle is locked as I spill over my knuckles, the tile, everywhere.

I squeeze shampoo into my palm and work it through my hair, fast, rough, almost punishing. Every motion is a distraction, a way to keep from fantasizing about her. I scrub down, rinse off, then shut off the water and stand there dripping.

After toweling off, I yank open the closet and pull on clean jeans and a gray T-shirt, glancing at the time. Ten minutes. I could have been ready in three. Instead, I’m pacing the apartment, checking my phone even though nobody ever texts me except the guys at the station and the occasional building update.

The urge to pace is so strong I actually give in. I stalk circles in my living room like a caged animal, tension fizzing in my veins. I check the clock. Seven minutes have passed. I check it again. Thirty seconds. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I acting like a moron over her?

I want her. Bad. I want her in my bed, in my arms, in my goddamn life every second. I want her so much I can’t see straight.

But I also want her to feel the same way.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IRIS

I have never wanted anything more in my life. I also have never wanted to crawl inside a pillow fort and hide more. I chug a glass of water, hoping the cool liquid will douse the bonfire currently turning my insides to pure, gooey marshmallow. No luck.

Buster rolls onto his back, exposing his fuzzy belly, tail thumping a slow, steady rhythm that perfectly matches my pulse. “You think I’m insane,” I whisper at him.

He yawns, showing off his pink tongue, and sneezes once.

“Thanks for the support.”

Okay. Shower. That’s what normal people do before a first date, right? Even if the “date” is a walk around the park with the guy who just turned my entire world upside down.

I peel out of my T-shirt and sweatpants, hop into the bathroom, and crank the water so hot it almost scalds me. The heat helps, but not enough. My hands shake the whole time I shampoo, condition, and exfoliate every inch of skin that might possibly be visible. By the time I step out, my body is buzzing with nervous energy, and my hair is an unsalvageable, dripping disaster.

I stare at my reflection, forcing myself not to panic. My hair is making a credible attempt at “drowned poodle,” and I don’t have much time to fix it. I end up wrangling my hair into a messy bun and then stand there, hands braced on the counter, trying to talk myself down off the ledge.

It’s just a walk in the park. With the man who makes my heart flutter and my girly bits tingle. No big deal.

Buster, ever the supportive roommate, is sitting at the threshold of the bathroom, head cocked to the side like he’s judging me for my life choices. Which, fair.

I glance down at him. “If you could, like, tone down the side-eye, that’d be great.”