Page 35

As the water sprays over my head and shoulders, my hand goes where it’s been begging to go all night, and I stop pretending I'm thinking about anything but her. Her scent in my head. The heat that snapped between our palms live as a wire. The sounds she'd make. I've imagined the sound she'd make more times than I'll ever own to, low and startled, like I caught her off guard, like she never planned to want me back.

Mate. Mate. Mine.

My wolf pours it on, every picture I've refused myself. Her under my hands. Her spine arching off the bed. Her fingers fisted in my hair and my name on her lips wanting me. My breath goes ragged.

I wrap my hand around the base of my cock and squeeze, just once, just to relieve some of the pressure. My breath hitches. The water runs over my knuckles and down my shaft, and I tell myself I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to stand in my own shower and jerk off thinking about her like some desperate teenager.

But then I think about her mouth. The way her lips part when she’s concentrating. The way she bites her lower lip while reading something on her phone.

And, I start stroking. Slow at first, just working the shaft, getting myself fully hard. My forearm flexes, tattoos shifting under wet skin, and I plant my other hand more firmly against the tile wall to steady myself. The shower head pours hot water across my shoulders and down my back, and I let the heat sink into my muscles while my hand keeps moving.

I think about what it would be like to have her in here with me. The water running over her shorter frame, her black hair plastered to her head, those hazel eyes looking up at me, not teasing anymore, not guarded, but open. Hungry. I think about pulling her against me, her back to my chest, my cock pressed against the curve of her ass while her breasts are squeezed by my hands and the water sluices over both of us.

My hand tightens and I stroke faster. I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat, in my wrists, in the heavy ache building at the base of my cock. I swipe my thumb over the head, spreading the slick precum that has started leaking, and my hips jerk forward involuntarily.

"Jesus, Maren," I say out loud, and my voice echoes off the tile.

I think about her hands. Her fingers are smaller than mine but steady, capable. I imagine them wrapping around my cock instead of my own, with her looking up at me while she strokes me, her mouth so close I can feel her breath. I think about her tongue, just the tip of it, tracing the ridge beneath the head, and a groan rips out of my chest that definitely sounds more animal than human.

My wolf is almost too close to the surface. I can feel it pace, pressing against my control, wanting out. Wanting her. The primal part of me doesn't give a shit about careful boundaries. It wants to bury itself in her and mark her and make sure every other wolf in a fifty-mile radius knows she's mine.

I brace both hands against the wall, water streaming down my face, and I let my forehead rest against the cool tile. My cock juts out in front of me, hard and flushed, and I can feel the tension coiling in my lower belly like a spring winding tight.

I reach down again. Wrap my hand around my shaft and start pumping with purpose now, long, firm strokes that drag from base to tip and back again. I imagine her legs wrapped around my waist, her heels digging into the backs of my thighs. The sounds she'd make, sharp little gasps, maybe, or a low moan that vibrates against my neck when I bury my face against her throat.

I think about her scent and her pussy. Wet and tight and pulling me in. I think about how she'd clench around me when she came, how her nails would dig into my shoulders, how she'd say my name in that breathless voice that would make my wolf howl.

My strokes get faster. Rougher. The sound of my hand moving is obscene under the water, wet, rhythmic, unmistakable. My thighs are shaking, muscles tense, and I can feel my balls drawing up tight. My orgasm is building like a wave, gathering force, and I stop trying to control it.

I think about what her face will look like when she comes. Eyes half-closed, lips parted, that flush spreading down her neck and across her chest. I think about burying myself deep inside her and holding still while she pulses around me, feeling every ripple, watching her face as pleasure takes her apart.

"Fuck! Maren!"

The orgasm hits me like a fist to the gut. My whole body locks up, every muscle going rigid, and I come so hard my vision blurs. Ropes of cum shoot across the shower floor, washed away almost instantly by the water, and I keep stroking through it, milking every last pulse until my cock is too sensitive to touch and my legs feel like they might buckle.

I stay there for a long moment, one hand on the wall, head bowed, breathing hard. The water is still hot. Steam fills the stall. My heart is hammering so loud I can hear it in my ears.

I don't move. I just stand under the spray and let the water run over me while my breathing slows and my cock softens and the fog in my brain starts to clear. The guilt comes first, sharp and immediate, because I'd told myself I wouldn't do this. I'd told myself I'd keep my distance, keep my head, keep my hands off her and my thoughts in line.

But then I think about the way she'd looked at me today. That glance over her shoulder. The slight curve of her lips. And the guilt shifts into something else, something that feels a lot like inevitability.

The water turns cold before I finally move. I don’t flinch when the icy stream hits my skin. I let it shock me back to full awareness, let it wash away the sweat and the come and the lingering heat of my own imagination. I stand under the cold water until my skin is numb and my thoughts are sharp again.

Then I shut off the shower, grab a towel, and dry off. I catch my reflection in the mirror as I wrap the towel around my hips. Grey eyes, dark hair, the scar through my eyebrow, the one across my shoulder. I look like a man who just did something stupid and is about to do something worse.

The house is quiet again, and nothing's changed.

My wolf settles into something close to grief.

Still gone, he says. Still not ours.

Yeah. I know.

I pull on clean jeans and a t-shirt, run a hand through my damp hair, and grab my phone from the counter. I text the locksmith. I make a list of every weak point in her shop I can reinforce without her catching me at it.

It didn't help. That's the joke Evelyn would never understand. The bond isn't in my body. It's the part of me that spent an hour watching Maren sleep and wanted nothing more complicated than to be in the room while she did it. You can't wear a thing like that down with your own hand. You can only feed it or starve it, and I've been starving it since April.

It's what I've got. I can't tell her the truth, I can't touch her, and I can't make the thing at her door stop wanting her. But I can fix her locks. I can sand her porch at four in the morning. I can stand in the twelve feet between us and be the wall. It's a poor way to love someone. But, it's the only way I've let myself.