Chapter 3 - Nicole
I close the bathroom door and lean against it, heart racing, thighs pressed together because holy fuck, I am soaked.
My panties are literally glued to my pussy with my own wetness. I can feel it. Slick and hot and embarrassing. Can feel how swollen I am, how desperately I need friction.
Because I felt it. I know I felt it.
His cock. Hard. Pressing against me when I hugged him.
Or did I? Was it real? Am I so desperate and pathetic that I'm imagining things that aren't there?
God, I don't know. My brain is scrambled from fear and adrenaline and the sheer overwhelming reality of Boone Sullivan carrying me away from danger like some kind of romance novel hero. Of him holding my hand. Calling me sweetheart. Looking at me like—
Like what? Like he wanted to protect me? Yes. Like he wanted to fuck me?
That's wishful thinking. That's my stupid crush interpreting basic human decency as sexual interest because I'm so starved for this man's attention that I'll take anything I can get.
But his breathing got heavy in the truck. I noticed. And when he grabbed my waist to help me down, his hands lingered just a second too long. And when I hugged him, I swear to God I felt something hard against my stomach.
Unless it was his belt buckle. Or his phone. Or literally anything else my desperate brain is choosing to interpret as his dick because I want it so badly I can't think straight.
I peel off my tank top with shaking hands. My nipples are hard, visible through my bra, aching to be touched. When did that happen? During the hug? Before? Have I been turned on this entire time and just didn't notice because I was too busy being terrified?
What kind of fucked up person gets horny after what happened?
Except it's not about Jason. That piece of shit killed any arousal I might have felt the second he touched me without permission. No, this wetness, this need, this desperate ache between my thighs… That's all Boone.
Boone coming to save me. Boone punching Jason unconscious. Boone holding my hand and promising to always come when I call.
I shimmy out of my jeans and look down at my panties. They're absolutely drenched. The white cotton is transparent with how wet I am, clinging to every fold, outlining everything. I can see the shape of my pussy lips through the fabric. Can see the wet spot that's soaked all the way through.
Jesus Christ. This is obscene.
I hook my thumbs in the waistband and slide them down. They're sticky, leaving a trail of wetness on my thighs. When I pull them off completely, there's a string of my own arousal connecting the fabric to my pussy.
I am *drenched*. Swollen and slick and throbbing.
And Boone Sullivan is right across the hall.
I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache, but it only makes it worse. I need to touch myself. Need to come. I need to ease this desperate, building pressure before I lose my mind.
I turn on the shower and step under the spray, letting hot water cascade over my overheated skin. My hands move automatically. One cupping my breast, pinching my nipple, the other sliding between my thighs.
I'm so wet the water barely makes a difference. My fingers slip through my folds easily, finding my clit swollen and sensitive. I bite my lip to keep from moaning.
I think about Boone. Can't help it. Think about his hands on my waist, so big they almost wrapped all the way around. Think about how they'd feel on my tits, squeezing, pinching. Think about him in the truck, jaw clenched, breathing heavy, looking at me like—
Like what? Like he wanted me? Or am I making that up too?
I circle my clit faster, working myself toward orgasm. I've done this so many times. Touched myself thinking about Boone. Imagined his hands, his mouth, his cock. Pictured him taking me apart slowly, thoroughly, the way he does everything else.
I imagine him in the shower with me now. Imagine his body. All those muscles I've seen when he works shirtless at the ranch, that broad chest and those thick arms and those powerful thighs. Imagine him backing me against the tile, lifting me like I weigh nothing, pinning me with his hips.
Would his cock be as big as the rest of him? Probably. God, definitely. I imagine it thick and long and hard, pressing between my thighs, the head nudging my entrance.
My fingers move faster. I'm close. So close.
I imagine him pushing inside. Imagine the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being taken by someone that big. Imagine his voice in my ear—that deep, rough voice that makes my knees weak—telling me I'm perfect, I'm beautiful, I'm his.
I come hard, biting my arm to muffle the sound, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, and I ride it out thinking about Boone, always Boone, only Boone.
When I finally come down, I'm embarrassed. Ashamed. He saved me tonight and here I am, masturbating in his shower, using him as spank bank material without his knowledge or consent.
I'm as bad as Jason.
No. No, that's not true. I would never force myself on Boone. Would never touch him without permission. Would never make him uncomfortable or unsafe. Fantasies are just fantasies. They exist in my head and hurt no one.
But still. It feels wrong. Feels like a violation of his kindness.
I finish washing quickly, using his soap that smells like cedar and something earthy. It smells like him. Like every fantasy I've ever had. I wash my hair with his shampoo too, because I don't have a choice, and try not to think about how I'll smell like him afterward.
Try and fail spectacularly.
When I turn off the water and step out, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
My face is flushed, lips swollen from biting them, eyes glazed with post-orgasm satisfaction.
My hair is wet and messy. My body is on full display.
Curves, stretchmarks and all the things I usually try to hide under baggy clothes.
I've never been comfortable with my body. My mom was thin, elegant. My friends are all skinny. And here I am, curvy and thick, with an ass that's too big and tits that are too much and thighs that touch when I walk.
But Boone didn't look at me like I was too much tonight. He looked at me like...
No. Stop. I'm reading things that aren't there.
I dry off and realize I don't have clothes. Right. He said he'd leave something outside the door. I wrap the towel around myself and crack open the bathroom door. The hallway is empty. There's a neatly pile of clothes on the handle—a flannel shirt and sweatpants.
I grab them quickly and close the door again.
The flannel is massive. So big it falls to mid-thigh on me, the sleeves hanging past my hands. I roll them up and breathe in deep. It smells like him. The sweatpants are just as oversized, requiring me to roll the waistband several times to keep them up.
I look ridiculous. Like a child playing dress-up in her father's clothes. But I also feel... safe. Wrapped in Boone's scent, in fabric that touched his skin. It's probably weird. Definitely pathetic. But I don't care.
There's no way I'm wearing a bra to sleep. I never do, so I leave it in the bathroom with my other clothes. The flannel is thick enough that my nipples won't show. Probably.
I open the door and step into the hallway. Boone's bedroom door is closed, but I can see light underneath. He's still awake.
The guest room is small but cozy. A queen bed with a thick quilt, a nightstand with a lamp, and a small dresser. Nothing fancy, but clean and comfortable.
I climb into bed and pull the quilt up to my chin. The sheets smell fresh, like detergent and sunshine. The mattress is firm but not uncomfortable. Under normal circumstances, I'd probably fall asleep immediately.
But these aren't normal circumstances.
I'm in Boone Sullivan's house. Wearing his clothes. After he saved me and punched out my attacker and held my hand and called me sweetheart and maybe—*maybe*—got hard when I hugged him.
My heart won't stop racing. My mind won't stop replaying every moment. Every word. Every look. Every touch.
Did he really get hard? Or am I delusional?
I press my thighs together. I'm still wet. Still aching. The orgasm in the shower barely took the edge off. If anything, it made things worse because now my body knows what release feels like and wants more.
I could touch myself again. Boone's right across the hall. He'd never know.
But that feels like too much. Like I'm pushing my luck. Like I'm taking advantage of his hospitality by turning his guest room into my personal fantasy playground.
So, I just lie there, throbbing and wanting, listening to the sounds of the house. Water running in another bathroom. Boone's probably showering. The creak of floorboards. The house settling.
Then his door opens. Footsteps in the hallway. They pause outside my door.
My breath catches. Is he going to check on me?
But the footsteps continue past, heading toward what must be the kitchen. I hear cabinets opening. The fridge. A glass being filled with water.
I should go to sleep. Should let him have his space. Should stop obsessing over every little thing. Instead, I get out of bed and pad quietly to my door, opening it just a crack.
Boone's in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He's changed, too. Flannel pajama pants and a white t-shirt that stretches tight across his chest and arms. His hair is damp from his shower. He's holding a glass of water, staring at nothing, jaw clenched.
He looks... frustrated. Tense. Like he's fighting something inside himself.
I should go back to bed. Should leave him alone.
But I don't.