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Showering has always been my way to unwind—the one moment of my day where I can escape. Since I’ve been so on edge, I spend longer than usual standing beneath the piping hot water tonight, my sex throbbing because every time I tilt my face up to the showerhead, I remember how Stone used it to get me off last week.
If I squeeze my eyes together hard and touch myself just right, I can almost imagine he’s with me.
I can imagine that it’s his strong, familiar hands—and not mine—caressing my legs, running up between my thighs, over my stomach and waist, taking their time, feeling every inch, every curve, before stopping at my breasts. I massage them at first. Then I squeeze tighter because that’s what Xander would do. Circle my nipples. Roll them taut between his thumb and forefinger. Pinch just hard enough for me to suck in a harsh breath. He would laugh then—deep and throaty—his voice close enough to my ear to shoot vibrations through me.
From my breasts, I move my hands down my body. Biting down on my bottom lip, I delve between my thighs, parting myself wide. I close my eyes tighter. Moan because I can see his blue eyes hovering over mine as his fingers glide along my slit— slowly, so slowly, until they hit home, brushing across my clit.
I circle a finger around my opening, but it’s not the same. It’s nothing like when he does it. I don’t stop, though. I can’t. I dip my finger into my warmth, then add another. I keep him in the front of my mind—his blue eyes intense and a knowing smirk stretching his golden features—as I buck my hips against my hand. I delve deeper, writhing as the water splashes around me and my palm slaps harder and harder against my clit. And when the convulsions start, and I reach my peak, I call his name. So loud and harsh it burns my throat.
I’ve missed him. Why have I missed him?
How is it possible that my stupid, impulsive, reckless heart could find itself so attached to a person who’s so terribly wrong for me? How could I feel so at home in his arms, when he was deceiving me all along?
How the hell could everything feel so real, when he was only using me?
Releasing a bitter sigh, I open my eyes and finish soaping up. I’ve worked myself into a state by getting off to him, but he’s the only fantasy that gets me anywhere near a climax these days. Which is depressing.
It makes me wonder if he’s ruined me for all other men.
I’m just about to rinse all the soap off when the door buzzer sounds. For a moment, I consider ignoring it but it continues to buzz. Repeatedly. Doubly frustrated now, I rinse off as much of the soap as I can, shut off the rapidly cooling water and stumble out of the shower, my legs shaky.
“I’m coming!” I shout, even though I know that whoever’s downstairs waiting to be let in can’t hear it. I wrap a towel tight around my body and dart across my living room, leaving puddles as I head toward the talk button. “Hello?”
Crackling silence greets me. It carries on for so long I’m about to disconnect, but then the speaker finally clicks on. “Skye, it’s me.”
I swallow hard when I hear Stone’s voice because my fantasies had it wrong—it’s richer, sexier. “What do you need?” I ask. I hate the way my voice cracks, giving me away.
“Let me upstairs. It’s important, I swear, or I wouldn’t have come.”
“Fuck off,” I tell him, and I disconnect the speaker.
There’s a long silence on the other side. Long enough that I release several slow breaths an
d let my body sag against the doorframe, my legs still trembling violently. After several moments, I tighten my towel around me, ready to head back to my bedroom to get dressed. Then the doorknob wiggles.
And turns.
I’m going for my phone and pepper spray when the door finally creaks open and that familiar, delicious voice orders, “Relax. It’s just me.”
That doesn’t make me relax. It does, however, make all the wind rush out of my lungs. I feel like I’ve just been sucker-punched, my stomach churning with the metaphorical kick. Hugging my arms beneath my breasts to keep my towel in place, I turn my head to face him. My dream. My nightmare.
Towering over me, Stone’s blond hair is messier than ever, falling over his forehead in a way that makes me want to reach out and race my fingers through it. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, either. Unfortunately, that level of rugged stubble looks fine as hell on him.
Bastard.
“Why the hell are you here?” I clench my fists, ready to shove him backwards to. Except, of course, I can’t let go of the towel wrapped around me. The towel that his blue eyes wander up and down appreciatively. The only small satisfaction I take from this whole situation is the way his throat bobs hard when he swallows, his lips parting slightly.
At least some of the physical attraction between us wasn’t just for show.
“Stone … go away. Please.”
His expression melts into a deep frown. His eyes, when he finally manages to drag them away from my breasts to meet my gaze, are bloodshot. Like he hasn’t slept in a few days. He rubs his hand over his face and sighs. “I had to see you.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You just broke into my apartment and—”
“I meant everything I said to you, Skye. I meant how I felt.”
“You can save your pathetic attempts at seduction for the next girl whose brother you need to rob, got it?” I storm across the room toward him, but he surges past me, trapping me between his body and the front door. Rage shudders over me as I spin around to shake my head at him. “Get out right now or I’m calling the cops.”
