Page 34

This is stupid.

I throw the blankets off and stumble to my feet, boxers tented obscenely. Cool air slaps my legs and does nothing to help the needy ache. I mutter a string of half-formed oaths, pad to the bathroom, and crank the shower as hot as it’ll go.

Steam fills the space, fogs the mirror, and loosens my muscles—but the problem between my legs only stiffens, bold as a bruise. I step under the spray and hiss when the water hits my overheated skin.

“Fuck,” I groan as I tilt my head back and close my eyes, trying to breathe through it. Bad move because the image that flares behind my eyelids is pure, unfiltered dream.

Onyx in the clearing, moonlight striping those wide shoulders, tattoo-like markings over his arms and chest, thick black hair falling over his shoulder. God, he looked all man, and it is confusing as hell.

Then another memory crashes in—the older dream, the one where he didn’t just stand in the clearing, but pushed me up against a tree and fucked the life out of me.

My cock kicks under the spray, each throb matched by a tug low in my gut. I brace both palms on the tile, water pounding on my back, and try to focus on anything else, but nothing sticks. It all slides off the slick surface of need until I’m left with bright blue eyes and a wall of muscle.

“Goddamn it,” I whisper, but it’s ragged, and half gone to a moan.

I wrap a hand around my cock because there’s no point pretending anymore. The first stroke steals my breath—too sensitive, too much. I rest my forehead against the wet tiles and work myself slowly, my palm gliding easily with soap and water, my hips rocking without permission.

I try to keep it controlled, which is laughable considering I’m braced in my bathroom jerking off to the memory of a forest creature who, until last night, didn’t even have a name I could pronounce without sounding insane.

Steam clings to my skin. Water runs down my spine, over my thighs, under my feet, and every stroke pulls another image loose from the dark place I shoved it.

Onyx looking at me when I named him.

Onyx’s relief pouring through the bond so strongly it felt like someone lit a fire inside my ribs.

Onyx’s bare chest marked with those dark, bark-like lines, the shape of him huge and still, and so painfully careful with me that it does something worse than scare me.

It makes me want.

I press my forehead harder against the tiles and drag my fist faster, jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” I mutter, but my voice breaks at the end, ruining the whole point of trying to sound annoyed.

My body doesn’t care about my opinions. It’s had five months of dreams, four weeks of absence, and one dream conversation with a male creature who looked like the forest learned how to stand on two feet and watch me with devotion. My body has taken all of that information and reached a conclusion without consulting me.

The worst part is how easy it is once I stop pretending.

I groan and stroke my cock faster. My knees wobble, so I widen my stance, picturing those long, dark-tipped fingers wrapping around my hips, pulling me back onto him until all I can hear is skin slapping and my own moans.

My hips jerk into my hand, and I choke on a sound I’m grateful no one is around to hear. I think of his hand over his chest when I gave him the name, the way happiness came through him without shame or defense, pure enough that it made my own ribs hurt.

My hand moves faster, slick and rough, water beating down on my shoulders while I chase the edge with an anger that has almost nothing to do with anger anymore.

I shouldn’t say his name; I really shouldn’t, but it rasps out anyway. “F-fuck. Onyx—”

As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I’m gone—body locking, pleasure ripping up my nerves in bright, relentless waves.

When I come, it tears out of me hard enough that my knees buckle and my palm slaps the tile to keep me upright. My breath catches, then breaks into a groan that echoes off the shower walls while my body pulses through it, white heat spilling over my fist and washing away almost instantly under the spray.

For a few seconds, I’m nothing but shaking muscle and embarrassment delayed by pleasure. Then reality crawls back in with the steam.

I stand there, panting, one hand still braced on the wall, and stare down at the water spiraling toward the drain as if it can tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do with myself now.

I didn’t just get off to a fantasy; I got off to him. A being who stepped out of myth and right into my life, claimed a name from my mouth, and now owns half my headspace before breakfast.

“Great,” I say hoarsely. “Fantastic. Very normal start to the day.”

By the time I clean up, finish the shower, and step into the fogged bathroom, humiliation has fully settled into my skin. I wipe the mirror with the side of my hand and look at myself through the smeared reflection.