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He turned the dial until the water was cold, but there was no relief. There were only images of her, innocent at first, turning into something else until his mind was brimming with them: Daria releasing prisoners at the cost of her dream, Daria saving everyone she could at the cost of her life. Daria feeling so soft and warm against his body, rendering him helpless to the idea of turning her around so he could feel more. He groaned, then cursed when his hand was already wrapped around his erection without him noticing. He squeezed, just that one firm pressure to ease the agitated state away, but then his brain connected to the way she had said his name once.
Charlie.
Husky. Just a touch needy. Pleading, and maybe if he just touched her the right way, he could turn it up a notch—
“Freaking bastard.”
The self-deprecation did nothing to ease his hardness, and one squeeze became two, then more. He closed his eyes and readjusted the dials until the warm water was back and he could slowly stroke his dick. The images became a slideshow at this point: Daria waking up with her slumbering gaze and her parted lips, Daria with her dainty fingers that could squeeze him good. Then there was Daria getting out of the water, nipples so pink that he knew they would taste so good in his mouth as he sucked and drew out her neediest moans.
Charlie.
Even her voice sounded real, responding to the way he touched her in his mind. But he wouldn’t stop at her tits, not when there was so much more to explore. He would eat her up, flip her around, and continue to feast until moans turned to cries and she was a mess of shattering climaxes. Perhaps she would return the favor after, too, and fall to her knees, where she would take his cock in her parted lips and slide her hands down his balls—
Charlie?
The images doubled in clarity, then faded. Her voice took the stage, perhaps because it was questioning…and real. His eyes snapped open, horror and arousal wrestling with each other to form a vision of Daria with her mouth open and her hand gripping the sink counter. Eyes a brighter gray and no longer as cloudy lasered him with a look of dawning comprehension.
“I knocked,” she blurted out.
He nodded. He tried to act as normal as possible—or at least, as normal as any man could with their hand still wrapped around their cock, the stroking halted midway. He turned his body a bit to hide it from her gaze, but that was focused on his face. But he couldn’t move beyond that, as frozen at the moment as she was.
“Can you see my face now?”
“No,” she said, and there was a hint of regret there.
“What do you want?”
She swallowed. Awareness crept in as he flicked a gaze down her throat, understanding she had seen him but was choosing not to acknowledge it. But there was a slight quiver to her voice.
“I came here to thank you for everything. I know I was so confident in the beginning, but I’m just as confident in saying now that I wouldn’t have made it without you.”
“You would have.” His voice was like gravel, hot and roughened. His body was ready to snap. “You were amazing up there.”
“So were you.”
Then her gaze lowered—an excruciatingly slow motion that seemed to take in every inch of him. By the time it landed on a very hard spot, he was already swelling harder and unable to stop his hand from squeezing once more.To scare her off,he reasoned out. To warn her not to walk in on strangers while they took a damn shower, no matter how they were the best of friends and how innocent it should have been. The irony was how her eyes watching him squeeze felt like a brand in itself, her invisible touch lending to his hot, repeated pulsing. And if she kept looking like that with open fascination and just a whisper of something else…
“Daria.”
Her head lifted. “What?”
“Either get out and lock the door or help me out.”
Silence followed his warning, so he basked in it and waited for the click. That wait was painful, his body revving to go at it, his muscles screaming at him to finish what he started—
“How do I help you out?”
Thoughts halted until his mind was empty all over again. The question was so unexpected that he almost slipped at the sudden jerk of his hips before he steadied a hand against a tile. When he turned his head, Daria was still there. She was also decidedly closer, with a sweet, steady determination in her body language that told him he would be arguing fruitlessly when there was something else he could do.
Hell could take him now and beat him up forever, but there was no strength left in his body to resist the strokes he resumed as she watched him with wide, flaring eyes. Gray darkened when he gave a particularly hard tug, then went wider when his motions heightened his speed. Just like that, all past Darias were forgotten as he could only focus on the present one, her hand fisting and unfisting on the counter.
“Just stand there,” he gritted out belatedly, remembering her earlier question. “That’s all you have to do.”
Her body arched slightly as if he had said something more provocative. The knee-jerk reaction had him groaning under his breath and stopping again before he glimpsed her mouth open as if to protest. And then it hit him.
“You have never seen a man touch himself before, have you?”
An idiotic question, but her small nod told him all he needed to know. It also allowed him to separate himself from the overwhelming guilt when he realized he was serving a purpose—a twisted one and he was still going to hell, but it was enough. With renewed vigor, Charlie’s hand moved: tugging in a rhythmic pattern, then sliding down to cup his balls and squeeze. Again, he waited for her to run to the hills all mortified, but Daria was looking at every second of it as if she wanted it etched in her brain. Her mouth opened, then closed, the tip of her tongue peeking out to wet her lower lip. He growled because it felt like a lick running down his soul.
