Chapter Three
Cade
I wake slowly, a deep yawn cracking my jaw as warm dawn light spills across my face.
The floor-to-ceiling windows are wide open to the city skyline, and I realize too late that I never bothered closing the long automated blinds last night.
Sunlight pours in unchecked, painting gold across the sectional and the blanket tangled around my waist.
Groggily, I sit up and drag both hands down my face, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My back protests from the couch, but it’s not uncomfortable enough to complain about. I push to my feet and pad barefoot down the hallway toward the bathroom, still half-asleep.
Inside, I use the toilet, then turn on the faucet to wash my hands and splash cold water over my face.
It shocks the last of the fog away. I pat my skin dry with one of the thick, soft towels hanging nearby.
A quick glance in the mirror confirms the usual look, sharp jaw shadowed, dark eyes still a little heavy.
I open the bathroom door and step back into the hallway. A low grunt stops me cold… it’s not the sound of someone getting out of bed. It’s deeper, rougher, unmistakably private… the kind of grunt that comes from Rowan jerking off.
My eyebrows snap up. I stand frozen, staring at the closed wooden door of his bedroom like it might suddenly explain itself. No way. I wait, ears straining, but the apartment has gone quiet again.
Unbelieving, I quickly walk back to the living room and drop onto the sectional, heart beating a little harder than it should. I don’t know why I’m sitting here so still, listening. I shouldn’t be, yet I do.
Ten minutes later, and I know it’s exactly ten because my eyes haven’t left the digital clock on the media unit shelf, another grunt filters down the hall. Lower this time, strained.
I frown. What the hell is he doing in there? When I jerk off, it’s usually over in four minutes, tops. Efficient and done. But he’s still going?
I lie back down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, the blanket pulled loosely over my hips.
Maybe he thinks I’m still asleep. I’m not exactly loud in the mornings, and Rowan knows I can sleep like the dead.
He probably assumes I’ve got an alarm set and hasn’t heard one go off yet, so he feels safe.
Another seven minutes drag by; the clock on the media unit blinks forward again.
Now I’m curious… and bothered. The feeling sits heavy and uncomfortable in my gut. Has he forgotten I’m even here? Or did he quietly check to make sure I was still out cold before he started?
This is not how I expected my first morning in his apartment to go.
A louder groan suddenly cuts through the quiet… it’s raw, edged with relief, the sound of someone finally tipping over the edge.
My breath catches sharply in my throat. Heat pools low in my gut, unexpected and unwelcome.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight, forcing myself to think of anything else…
work spreadsheets, traffic, the fucking weather…
anything but the image of Rowan in there, flushed and breathing hard.
It’s wrong, completely fucked up to have any kind of reaction to your stepbrother.
I tell myself it’s just because I find people fascinating. Rowan especially. I’ve never really understood him, the way he guards his space, the way he keeps everyone at arm’s length, the way he looks at me like I’m irritating.
I crack one eye open and frown at the clock. Twenty minutes. That had to be purposeful. He must have been deliberately dragging it out, right? The thought keeps circling as I stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore the lingering heat in my gut and the way my body refuses to calm down.
Then I hear the soft click of Rowan’s bedroom door opening.
My instincts kick in instantly. I roll over fast, turning my back to the room and facing the couch cushions, pretending to still be deep in sleep.
There’s no time to pull the blanket over myself, leaving me exposed in nothing but my black boxers.
I force my breathing to stay slow and even, though my heart is suddenly hammering against my ribs.
Bare feet pad quietly down the hallway. I hold my breath.
The apartment falls into a heavy, charged silence broken only by the low hum of the city waking up far below the windows.
My mind races even as I keep perfectly still.
Did he see me? Did he notice the way I’m sprawled here, half-naked on his couch, back turned like some coward trying to hide?
Or is he too wrapped up in his own morning fog to register anything?
Every second stretches. My skin feels too warm, too aware of the cool air against my bare back and legs. The memory of that muffled groan still echoes in my ears no matter how hard I try to push it away. I stay frozen, breath locked tight in my chest, waiting.