Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Jay
Fuck, I needed this shower. The second the hot water hit my skin, relief crashed through me like I’ve been holding my breath for days.
But the moment I close my eyes… there she is. Perched on the floor, knees tucked up, the hem of her sleep set barely grazing the tops of her thighs. I have no business imagining her, but just as I think it, she’s undressing in my mind and letting those tiny shorts slide down her legs.
Her top slips from her shoulder. My hand follows the slope of her neck in my head like I have every right to be here.
My mouth finds the dip of her collarbone, tongue trailing along warm skin I’ve never tasted before, but damn do I want to right now.
She sighs, and it vibrates through me in a way I can’t pretend is anything other than need.
My fingers skim the line of her spine, memorizing the curve, the heat.
The steam in here isn’t from the water anymore. It’s from the way my chest tightens when she looks at me in this imagined space—steady, unblinking, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking and she’s daring me to keep going.
My grip on reality fades because I know this isn’t real, and still, my body doesn’t care. My breathing’s shallow. My head’s light. My fist is curved around the head of my cock, teasing like I hope she would do.
Her laughter skims along my skin and makes it impossible to tell where the fantasy ends and I begin. That’s the problem, that I can’t imagine stopping. Not when it’s her naked body pressed up against mine, or her hand wrapped around me, pumping, teasing, taking.
I drop my forehead to the wall, water pounding over my shoulders, trying to catch my breath as I come harder than I have in forever. My chest heaves as I desperately try to pull myself back into something that feels like control, but the aftershocks of that orgasm have me reeling.
Steam clings to me as I shut the water off, the pipes groaning in the walls like they know exactly what I just did. I stand there for a second longer than I should, both hands braced on the tile, willing my pulse to even out.
When I finally push the curtain back, the cool air rushes in and raises goosebumps across my skin.
I towel off fast, like moving quickly will shake her from my head, but it doesn’t.
She’s still there, lodged somewhere deep, the phantom weight of her body against mine refusing to fade.
Regret for picturing someone who doesn’t have any interest in me beyond being a safe place for her right now swarms my conscious thoughts.
Opening the door to the hallway, the rustle of someone moving around in the kitchen gives me the all clear, so I sneak into my old room to grab clothes and pull on sweatpants and a clean T-shirt.
I run a hand through my damp hair, trying to gather myself before I step into the hallway.
The sound of movement draws me toward the kitchen again, light footsteps, the faint clink of something against the counter, her murmuring something, probably to that cat.
The smell of warm spices and the faint bite of chili in the air hits me as I walk, and I realize it’s my curry. The one I’d pulled from the freezer this morning, the one I’d been looking forward to all damn day.
She’s standing at the stove, barefoot, hair scraped into a loose knot that’s barely hanging on, one of those thin straps of her top constantly sliding down her arm.
She’s humming as she stirs. Two plates are already on the counter, forks beside them, glasses waiting to be filled.
I have to cover my mouth so a groan doesn’t accidentally slip out.
Nick Fury perches on the edge of the counter like he’s supervising, tail flicking lazily as she murmurs something to him about “spices aren’t good for kitties.”
She doesn’t notice me right away, which is probably a good thing because I’m still trying to school my face into something neutral.
My pulse hasn’t completely slowed since the shower, and watching her here, completely at home and comfortable, isn’t helping.
Something has switched in my brain, and I need to cool my jets.
When she finally looks up and meets my eye, it’s with that easy, unguarded smile that always catches me off guard. “Hope you don’t mind,” she says, giving the curry another slow stir. “I saw it in the fridge and figured we could eat together.”
I nod, stepping further into the room but still leaning against the doorframe so I don’t do something stupid like cross the space between us. “Didn’t we talk about you cooking after pasta-gate?”
She smirks, grabbing two glasses and filling them with that peach iced tea she always buys. I’ll have to figure out a way to make it for her instead because that’s 90 percent sugar. “Don’t get used to it. My culinary skills are strictly limited to heating up the incredible food my roommate cooks.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, moving toward the counter, the warmth from the stove spilling over onto my skin.
She ladles the curry onto both plates, then the rice too, and slides one in my direction.
Her fingers brush mine when I take it, and it’s nothing, but my brain’s still full of her from twenty minutes ago, and it’s enough to make my grip tighten on the plate.
“Thanks,” I manage, hoping my voice doesn’t give me away.
She looks at me for a beat, then down at her food, a flush lightly dusting her collarbones. “Good shower?”
The question is casual on the surface, but it lands like she knows—like she can somehow read the heat still under my skin. That it’s tattooed on me, somehow obvious for her to see. I clear my throat, shifting my grip on the fork. “Yeah,” I say, a little too fast. “Hot water. Did the job.”
Her lips twitch, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You look… relaxed.”
I spear a piece of chicken, forcing my attention to the food and not the fact that my mind is replaying something very much not suitable for dinner conversation. “Guess I needed it.”
She hums, the sound low and knowing, and takes a bite of her curry without looking at me. But there’s a spark in her eyes when she finally glances up again, like she’s turning something over in her head.
Nick Fury chooses that exact moment to leap onto the breakfast bar, padding between our plates, looking for scraps.
“Absolutely not,” Liv says, scooping him up against her chest. “You naughty pussy.”
I forget how to swallow. Literally. The chicken just… lodges somewhere in my throat because my brain heard that word and immediately threw me into a place that has nothing to do with the cat and everything to do with the beautiful woman in my space.
Not the cat. Definitely not the cat.
It’s her voice saying it. Her mouth shaping it.
And, yeah, maybe that mouth is nowhere near my ear in real life right now, but the part of my brain still steam-fogged from the shower is not interested in reality, and I’m fighting down, not only ill-lodged food, but also my dick trying to react to her. Again. This is no good at all.
I cough into my fist like that’ll help, grabbing for my water before she notices the way my grip on the fork’s gone white-knuckle.
“You alright over there?” she asks, eyes wide in that faux-concerned way that makes it impossible to tell if she’s actually worried or just enjoying the show.
“Fine,” I manage, though my voice cracks halfway through, which is not ideal for credibility.
Her mouth curves as she pets the cat, still murmuring to him. “See what you’ve done? Corrupting the poor man during dinner.”
The cat blinks at me like he’s in on the joke. It wouldn’t surprise me that Liv would find an animal that’s her in feline form. But the way both of their glittering eyes are assessing me, I’d say they’re trying to get me to crack on something they should know nothing about.
If she does suspect anything… I’m not sure I could lie convincingly enough to save myself.