Chapter 9 #2
My body tightens, the pleasure building, spiraling out of control. I cry out, my head falling back as my orgasm washes over me, waves of ecstasy crashing through me. Ash groans, his thrusts becoming frantic, his body tensing as he follows me over the edge.
I pause, notebook hot in my hands, pulse pounding.
I read it back once. My cheeks are flushed. And then slam the cover shut.
I am so not okay.
I drop the notebook onto the nightstand and bury my face in a pillow.
He doesn’t even like me like that. He was just doing his job.
And I’m writing smut about him in my bed.
God help me.
***
The next day Ash and I are hanging out by the pool.
The sun is warm on my shoulders, my feet are dipped lazily in the water, and I’m starting to think I might actually be relaxed for once.
Ash is sprawled on a lounge chair nearby—sunglasses on, guitar across his lap, a can of sparkling water balanced on his knee as he works on a song.
“Damn it!” he suddenly mutters.
I glance over. “You okay?”
He grumbles like an old man. “I’m fine. It’s just this song I’ve been working on. I can almost hear how it’s supposed to continue—it’s right there at the back of my mind—but I can never quite catch it. It’s been driving me mad. And now that I’m finally getting somewhere, I don’t have my notebook.”
It’s true. I’ve noticed him strumming the same line over and over, humming the same few words. You can’t rush music, I guess.
“Here. Use mine,” I offer, reaching into my canvas tote and pulling out a small spiral-bound notebook—the one I use for everyday stuff: lists, craft ideas, grocery thoughts, maybe a quote or two.
I toss it to him.
He catches it one-handed and starts flipping through. “You mind if I find a blank page?”
“Go for it.”
I stretch my arms overhead, the breeze cooling the strip of skin between my tank top and waistband, and glance over at him absently.
He’s still flipping.
One page. Then another.
Then he stops. He finally must have found a blank page. I’m nearly done with this notebook. I make a mental note to buy another one for my everyday use.
Out of the corner of my eye I see his body stilling, his brow lowered just slightly, his fingers frozen mid-turn.
He blinks.
Then he slowly closes the notebook.
“Everything okay?” I ask lightly, already sitting up straighter.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, not looking at me. “Just remembered I—uh—need to rinse off.
He sets the notebook gently on the arm of the lounger, slides his guitar off his lap, and stands. Too smooth. Too fast.
I frown. “Wait, now?”
“Yeah. Just need to check something real quick.” He nods toward the house, sunglasses hiding his eyes now. “Back in a bit.”
I watch him disappear through the sliding door, the guitar still in one hand, his whole body tense in a way it definitely wasn’t five minutes ago.
I reach for the notebook.
Open the cover.
And my stomach drops through the deck.
It’s not the grocery-list notebook.
It’s the other one.
The one with my blog notes. And daydreams. And—
I flip to the page I know he saw.
There it is.
The scene I wrote last night. The fantasy. The one where he doesn’t walk away after the photo shoot. The one where he kisses me for real. Undresses me slowly. Pushes me down onto the cold studio floor and makes me forget we’re pretending.
Oh.
Oh no.
My entire body goes hot. Then cold. Then both at once.
He read it.
He read that.
And now he’s… what? Processing? Laughing? Regretting every life choice that led him to this pool?
I stare at the notebook in my lap like it just betrayed me.
Which, to be fair, it absolutely did.
Except it’s not the notebook’s fault. It’s mine. I handed it to him. I let him flip through it.
I groan and drop my face into my hands.
He read it. He read it.
Oh my god. What must he be thinking?
Does he feel violated? Flattered? Disgusted?
He left so fast. Said he had a call. Yeah, right. That was the smoothest fake exit I’ve ever seen, and I’ve taught five-year-olds how to lie about eating glue.
My heart pounds as I stare at the pool’s shimmering surface. I can still feel the heat on my face. Like I’ve been caught doing something private. Intimate. Shameful.
He probably thinks I’m desperate. Obsessed. Completely unhinged.
Which… fine. I might be.
But I didn’t mean for him to know.
There’s no way around it. I have to apologize—immediately. Embarrassment claws up my throat, but guilt rises right alongside it.
I head into the house and down the hallway to his room, barefoot, heart racing.
“Ash,” I call out, determined to get this over with quickly.
I open his bedroom door. It smells like him in here—sharp cedar, faint cologne, something warm and clean and very masculine. I’ve seen his room before. I know there’s a walk-in closet adjacent to the far wall.
He must be in there.
I stride to the door and push it open. “Hey, Ash, I’m really sorry—”
And immediately wish I had any instincts whatsoever.
Because it’s not the closet. It’s the bathroom.
And I’ve just barged in, completely distracted by my mission to make things right—and walked straight into a blast of frigid air… and a full, unfiltered view of Ash Ryder in the shower.
My brain short-circuits.
He’s turned slightly, water running down his back, muscles shifting with every move. His head tilts toward the stream, one hand braced on the tile.
Then he turns.
He sees me.
And for a beat—a horrible, suspended eternity—so do I.
Every. Inch.
And one very prominent inch in particular.
I freeze.
My eyes—traitorous, wide-eyed little monsters—drop before I can stop them. Lower. Lower. Oh god.
He’s hard.
I don't even mean to look, but the flash of movement catches my attention before I can tear my gaze away. And now it’s burned into my memory like a cursed gif. Long. Thick. Confidently present.
Ash freezes, too. His mouth opens slightly—like he’s deciding whether to cover himself or lean into it. His hand doesn't move.
And worst of all?
He knows I saw.
His eyes meet mine, and something flickers behind them.
Heat. Panic. No—worse.
A smirk.
That’s what undoes me.
I slam the door shut so fast, it’s a miracle I don’t knock it off the hinges.
“Oh my god.”
I stumble back a step. Two. Slam into the edge of his bed with a graceless thud.
“Oh my god oh my god.”
I’ve never wanted a time machine more. Or a sinkhole. Or to have been born without eyes.
And now? Now I can’t even face him.
Because not only did I walk in on him naked, I saw him very aroused… and I stared.
I bury my burning face in my hands, still breathing hard when the door creaks open behind me.
“Olive?” His voice is calm. Too calm.
I spin away from the door, still not looking at him. “I didn’t mean to—oh god—I thought it was a closet!”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then: “Closets don’t usually have running water.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs.
Of course he laughs. But there’s something beneath his laughter. Something wild. And when I finally look up, I see he is wrapped in a small towel and his gaze is hungry.
He’s still wet. And still mostly naked.
My breath catches as he steps closer.
“Ash,” I start, but it comes out like a plea. “I—look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to see—I mean, I saw, but I wasn’t trying to—”
“Stop talking,” he murmurs.
And then he kisses me.
Hard.
His mouth is on mine, his hands warm and damp against my waist, and suddenly I can’t remember how to breathe, let alone think. The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not careful.
It’s desperate. Demanding.
Like he’s been holding back for weeks and can’t anymore.
And I—I kiss him back.
Because of course I do.