Chapter Hot Showers & Terrible Decisions
Hot Showers & Terrible Decisions
Sloane
The first five seconds after I wake up are… nothing.
Dark behind my eyelids. A tiny voice whispering, bed, warm, soft, don’t move.
Then the world snaps into focus.
First thought when I open my eyes:
Where am I?
Second, much worse thought:
Why does everything smell like aftershave?
I push myself up slowly, my head pounding like I spent the night at some illegal rave.
Then I see the bed.
Not mine.
Dark sheets.
Huge pillows.
Wool blanket.
And—most important detail—rumpled, like someone definitely slept right next to me.
My whole body locks. My heart takes a running start into a full-blown panic marathon.
No.
No no no no NO.
I jerk upright, heart racing.
At least I’m still dressed.
Wait… am I still in last night’s clothes?
That’s when I notice the dirty makeup wipes on the carpet.
My hand flies to my face.
Clean.
Perfectly clean.
He took my makeup off.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I don’t remember anything.
Maybe a few fragments. Something starts to claw its way through my very confused brain.
On the nightstand there’s a glass of water, an aspirin, and the tiniest Post-it:
“You’re not Wonder Woman. Hydrate. — Cohen.”
I drag a hand down my face.
No.
He did not actually do that.
He cannot go from sexy demon to nurse-in-sweatpants overnight.
I take the aspirin anyway. I hate him, but not enough to suffer on purpose.
I’m already gearing up to yell at him when I hear it.
Water.
The shower.
He’s here.
He’s in the shower.
That asshole.
I shoot to my feet, wobble on the carpet, almost trip, then somehow manage to stay upright with all the dignity I have left (zero, in case anyone’s keeping score).
I storm toward the bathroom.
The door is slightly open.
Steam.
Running water.
I don’t knock.
I don’t call his name.
I am way too pissed to be polite.
I slam the door open and yank the shower curtain back.
“YOU WERE NOT AUTHORIZED TO—”
Error.
Catastrophic error.
Cohen is right there.
Naked.
How did you expect to find him in the shower, Sloane? Hush, inner idiot.
Water sliding over his skin.
Broad shoulders.
Defined chest.
Soap running down his torso…
And an expression of shock that’s somehow more dangerous than the scalding water.
He looks like a billboard for… literally anything you’d sell using a gorgeous naked man.
We both freeze.
He’s standing there with one hand midair, shampoo dripping down his arm.
I’m clutching the curtain, mouth hanging open like a moron.
He blinks.
“Morning.”
I stay mute for three whole seconds.
Then I remember I’m furious.
Furious-furious.
I cling to that, because the alternative is focusing on the veins in his forearms. Or the soap. Or—
I pull myself together. Or fake it.
“You. You did not—” I suck in a breath and force myself not to look there. I stare at the ceiling (bad idea), then at the corner grout line (better). “Why did you not take me HOME?!”
He runs a hand through his wet hair, blinking like he’s half a beat behind the conversation.
“Answer me!” I jab my arm in his direction… then realize exactly where my gaze is headed and whip around to face the wall. “Did you kidnap me? Did you abduct me? Why—”
“You didn’t give me your house keys,” he says, calm. Actually amused. He rinses the shampoo out. “And I wasn’t leaving you passed out in your driveway.”
I hate him.
“You could’ve—”
“You were wasted, Heart. You could barely keep your eyes open.”
“You could’ve left me there!” I snap, crossing my arms so he can’t see my hands shaking.
“I asked for your keys. You said—and I quote—‘I’d rather eat them than give them to you,’ and then you threatened a streetlamp.”
Ugh.
Possible.
Very possible.
I turn back (don’t look, don’t look, don’t—okay, half a second, purely accidental), glare at him and fold my arms tighter.
“You. Should. Have. Left. Me. There.”
“Oh yeah? And when the streetlamp took it personally, what was your plan?”
I hate him.
I hate him because he’s right.
“And then you slept next to me? Why?” My voice goes high and sharp now.
He leans forward to turn off the water. Every movement pulls at muscles that would require fifteen years of therapy not to notice.
Then he looks at me.
Not arrogant.
Not smug.
Just… honest.
“Because when I tried to leave, you grabbed my shirt,” he says quietly. “And you said, ‘don’t go.’”
My stomach turns to ice.
“No, I—”
“I know. You weren’t fully lucid. But I couldn’t just… leave you alone.”
I scramble for something to say.
Anything clever.
Anything at all.
All I’ve got is static.
Before I can string two neurons together, we hear the bedroom door open.
“Cohen?”
Someone’s voice. Male. Close.
Instant panic.
The doorknob turns.
Cohen goes pale.
So do I.
Shit. I left the bathroom door wide open.
OH GOD NO.
His eyes go wide, and he doesn’t waste a single second.
He grabs me by the waist, hauls me into the shower, and flips the water back on.
Warm water crashes over both of us.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers against my ear.
He braces an arm across my front so I don’t slip. I slam both hands against his side on instinct—huge mistake, wet skin, hot body, brain fried.
The mystery man is right outside the curtain.
“I’m in the shower, Nate!” Cohen calls, voice totally neutral.
Oh, great. Nate.
His manager. Direct line to my father’s team.
Perfect.
“What the hell happened to you? What are you doing?”
Cohen slaps his hand gently over my mouth without even looking.
His palm is hot.
My face is on fire.
“Nothing! Stop being nosy,” he answers, like he’s not naked, under the water, with me plastered against him like some forbidden accessory.
“It is my job, Cohen. Besides being your fucking friend. I'll wait downstairs, we really need to talk,” Nate says, and we hear the door close.
Silence.
Water thundering around us.
Zero air in my lungs.
Cohen’s hand slowly slides away from my mouth.
It’s the water. It’s just the water. He’s not doing it on purpose. Right?
I don’t move.
He doesn’t move.
Every inch of me is buzzing.
I hate this feeling more than anything.
Or maybe I don’t hate it at all.
When I finally manage to speak, my voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.
“…You’re completely insane.”
His breath brushes my temple.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
A smile I feel more than see.
“But you’re not far behind.”
“Yes.”
The word comes out broken, almost choked.
And suddenly I don’t know if I’m answering him or the part of my brain that has finally decided to stop fighting.
My hand—traitor that it is—rests against his chest.
Warm.
Wet.
Solid.
My fingers slide along his collarbone before I even realize what I’m doing.
Cohen inhales softly.
His fingers hook under my chin, lifting it just enough to force my gaze up to his.
And Cohen Becker—the man who short-circuits me, irritates me, fascinates me, completely dismantles my mental balance—looks at me like I’m the only anchor in a storm.
“I’m going to regret opening my mouth right now, but…” His voice is rough. He pauses, swallows. “You don’t want this, Sloane. Let’s get out of here.”
Oh, he is absolutely going to regret opening his mouth.
“Don’t. You. Dare. Tell. Me. What. To. Do. Becker.”
And then I give in.
Before I can think.
Before fear can win.
Before what’s right outweighs what I want.
I kiss him.
I surge forward, clinging to him without restraint, and he responds instantly—arms locking around me, mouths colliding, heat and urgency exploding between us.
Water streams over our bodies, slick and burning, turning every point of contact electric.
His hands frame my face, fierce and careful all at once.
He kisses me like he’s trying to erase the rest of the world.
The water pours down, scalding.
He lets out a low, broken sound that goes straight through me, and I clutch at him—his slick shoulders, his wet hair—holding on like I might fall apart if I don’t.
“You’re going to tell me this was a mistake,” he murmurs, fighting for control I have no interest in letting him keep.
“Sure,” I say, already kissing him again.
That’s it.
The moment my mouth meets his, whatever fragile thread of logic Cohen Becker has been clinging to snaps completely.
He pulls me tight against him, the water rushing between us, my legs—trapped in soaked, useless pants—pressing against his naked, burning body.
His hands cradle my face again, intense and attentive, and he kisses me like nothing else exists.
That sound escapes him once more—deep, helpless—and I grab him, everywhere I can reach.
“You’re going to hate me,” he breathes.
Is he still trying to hold back?
God damn him.
“Don’t talk shit, I already hate you.” I pull away just enough to rip off my blouse. Thank goodness… I’m not wearing a bra.
Less fabric.
Less resistance.
Cohen stares at me like he’s never seen breasts before in his life, and—ridiculously—it makes me feel powerful. Wanted.
I smirk. I can see it in his eyes.
He’s unraveling.
“I’m going to hate myself,” he murmurs, and I’m not even sure if he’s talking to me.
I step closer again.
My hand, which had been heading for my pants, changes course and goes straight for his cock.
Oh God. The second I grab him, stars burst behind my eyes. He’s big, hard, thick—and I’ve never felt so powerful.
“Sloane…”
My name sounds like a curse on his lips.
I see it in his eyes. He’s already gone.
“Are you really saying you can’t give me what I want?” I whisper.
He growls.
Yes.
That landed.
“I’m just trying to—” He stops, swallows. For a second, his eyes look almost vulnerable.
I want him with every fiber of my being—but I don’t want to force him.
So I pull my hand away.
“Okay. Message received,” I say lightly. “You don’t want this.”
I don’t feel disappointed.
I don’t.
That tight feeling in my chest? Definitely not disappointment.
It doesn’t hurt.
“Sloane—”
I only realize I’m turning away when his hand closes around mine. His voice is low, rough. “Fuck. Of course I want you. Who wouldn’t?”
A nervous smile slips out.
He has no idea.
But no—this is not the time to think about my ex.
Cohen pulls me back toward him, his hand sliding up my face, stopping under my chin.
Then he kisses me again.
It’s different this time. Slower. Almost tender.
“Last night,” he says quietly, “I promised myself I wouldn’t hurt you again.”
Oh hell no. I don’t want this. He shouldn’t dare.
“You’re giving yourself too much credit, Cohen-the-Pest.”
I pitch my voice into its most arrogant register and lift a brow.
“Now—are you actually capable of fucking me, or not?”
He stifles a laugh.
“I think I’ve demonstrated that more than once,” he says, the arrogance sliding right back into place.
Good.
Great.
I want to hate him.
And stop wanting him.
Period.
“Then fuck me properly,” I say, cool and sharp, “and stop acting like a scared puppy.”