Chapter 15 The Temptation
The Temptation
brOOKS
The house is quiet now that Meema’s tucked in bed with her post-celebration meds.
But my mind is loud—a jumbled mess of Jonah’s digs, Garrick’s voicemails, and Sydney’s hand in mine all evening.
She leaves to shower, and I collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling where hockey sticks still glow faintly in the dark.
Twenty-four hours ago, this fake relationship seemed manageable.
A means to an end. Now? Now I’m one hormone surge away from forgetting every promise I’ve ever made.
I roll over, burying my face in the pillow that still smells of her shampoo. Big mistake. Huge.
I flip back over with a groan, my shoulder revolting. The pain is almost welcome—a distraction from the more pressing discomfort growing in my dick.
“Just another month,” I mutter to the empty room.
A month of pretending, of hand-holding and casual touches that feel like striking matches against my skin.
Until Meema’s treatment results come back.
Until Sydney secures her position at the station.
Then we can stage an amicable breakup, and I can go back to—what, exactly?
My career hanging by a thread? The mountain of missed calls from my agent? The women who mean nothing to me?
The sound of splashing water comes from the en-suite bathroom. The door is closed but not soundproof.
In a shower, there’s no splashing.
I sit upright, my ears suddenly tuned to every splash, every shift of water. Is she—? The unmistakable pop of a bubble bath cap confirms it. Sydney Holt is lying down naked. Wet. Covered in bubbles. Separated from me by approximately fifteen feet and one flimsy door.
“Fuck,” I whisper, running a hand through my hair.
My body’s already responding, blood rushing south so fast I feel lightheaded.
This is torture. Self-inflicted, completely avoidable torture.
I should get up. Go downstairs. Maybe sleep on the couch tonight.
Anything to put more distance between me and the mental image of Sydney sliding into steaming water, her skin flushed pink from the heat.
I don’t move.
Her humming drifts through the door—some song I vaguely recognize but can’t name. It’s so... normal. Domestic. The kind of ordinary moment you share when you’re actually dating someone.
My mind flashes back to yesterday’s kiss—the way her lips softened beneath mine, how she made that little sound in the back of her throat when I tugged her hair. The way her hands felt sliding up my back, her nails scratching my skin.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memory away. It doesn’t help. Now I’m just seeing it in vivid detail on the backs of my eyelids—Sydney’s flushed face, her pupils dilated, her lips parted and swollen from my kiss.
“Stop it,” I growl.
A splash from the bathroom, followed by a “fuck me” moan. I’m painfully hard now, straining against my jeans.
Another splash. Another moan. I swear I can smell her bubble bath—something fruity and floral that makes my mouth water. I’m gripping the edge of the mattress now, knuckles white, physically restraining myself from heading to that door.
What would happen if I did? If I knocked, asked to come in? The thought sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. Would she say yes? Would she look at me with the same heat I saw in her eyes during our kiss? Or would she recoil, remind me of our agreement, our rules, our boundaries?
I let myself imagine it—Sydney in the tub, water beaded on her skin, hair piled messily on top of her head with a few damp strands clinging to her neck.
Me kneeling beside the tub, trailing my fingers through the water, watching goosebumps rise on her flesh.
Leaning in to kiss her, tasting bathwater and Sydney on my tongue.
I stand and pace the small room, trying to think about anything else—hockey stats, Meema’s medication schedule, the way my body crumpled against the boards—
I freeze as another sound filters through the door—a heated moan. Is she—?
No.
She’s probably just enjoying the hot water on sore muscles. Nothing sexual about it. Except now I can’t unhear it, can’t unthink it. Sydney touching herself in my bathroom, biting her lip to stay quiet.
My hand drifts to the front of my jeans without conscious decision. I palm myself roughly through the denim, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth at the friction. This is bad. This is crossing a line. But my brain seems disconnected from my body now, operating on pure instinct and need.
I drop back onto the bed, unzipping my jeans with fumbling fingers. The relief is immediate but not enough. Not nearly enough. I should stop. I know I should stop. But then Sydney makes another of those primal sounds, and my resolve crumbles.
I wrap my hand around myself, already leaking, already so close it’s humiliating.
Like I’m sixteen again, getting off at the thought of a girl.
But Sydney isn’t just any girl. She’s sunshine and storm clouds, sharp words and soft smiles.
She’s the way her hand fits in mine, the way she calls me on my bullshit, the way she remembered Meema’s cake exactly how she wanted it.
I stroke slowly at first, hesitant. But the sounds from the bathroom—water moving, Sydney’s satisfied sigh—they’re driving me wild.
My mind constructs a vivid fantasy: me joining her in that tub, water sloshing over the sides as she straddles my lap.
Her slick skin sliding against mine, her head thrown back in pleasure as I take one rosy nipple into my mouth.
I’d go slow at first, savoring every inch of her. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her beg. I bet Sydney Holt is magnificent when she begs—all that pride and stubbornness melting away under the right touch. My touch.
I’d trail my lips down her throat, across her collarbone, between her breasts. I’d leave marks—subtle ones, ones she could hide at work but would feel with every movement, reminding her of me, of us, of what we did together.
My hand moves faster now, grip tightening. In my mind, Sydney’s in the shower now, pressed against the tile wall, one leg hooked around my waist as I thrust into her. Water cascading over us, her nails digging into my shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations that I’d wear like badges of honor.
“Brooks,” she’d gasp, my name a plea. “God, Brooks. More.”
And I’d give her more. I’d give her everything. I’d make her come so hard she’d see stars, her body clenching around mine, pulling me deeper, turning me primal.
I’m close now, so close, breath coming in harsh pants that I pray she can’t hear through the door. The fantasy shifts—Sydney on her knees in front of me, looking up through those long lashes, her lips wrapped around—
“Jesus,” I groan, barely remembering to keep my voice down. I grab a tissue from the nightstand, just in time as I come harder than I have in months, maybe years. My entire body tenses, then goes slack, pleasure coursing through me in waves that gradually ebb into a warm satisfaction.
For about fifteen seconds.
Then reality crashes back in. I just jerked off thinking about Sydney—Sydney, who’s right on the other side of that door.
Sydney, who’s my fake girlfriend. Sydney, who’s my best friend’s sister. Sydney, who has no idea the kind of mess I really am.
Shame burns hot in my face as I clean myself up, tucking the evidence into the tissue and zipping my jeans with hands that aren’t quite steady. What the hell is wrong with me? This was supposed to be an arrangement with clear boundaries. And here I am, crossing them in the most pathetic, basic way.
The water drains from the tub with a gurgling sound that seems accusatory. I need to get rid of this tissue, splash some cold water on my cheeks, and pull myself together before Sydney sees me and reads what I’ve done on my face.
I can sneak down the hall to the guest bathroom, dispose of the evidence, and be back before she’s done. Decision made, I move quickly, easing my bedroom door open with a silent prayer that the hinges don’t creak.
The hallway is dark except for the small nightlight Meema keeps plugged in near her room. I creep past her door, holding my breath, the tissue clutched in my hand.
The guest bathroom is cold and impersonal compared to mine—no bubble bath supplies, no hints of Sydney’s presence.
I flush the tissue, wash my hands twice, and then splash water on my face.
In the mirror, my reflection looks back at me—flushed, guilty, and completely fucked in so many ways it’s silly.
“This stops now.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. Whatever is happening between Sydney and me—whatever real thing is growing beneath our fake relationship—it’s not going to stop just because I want it to. It’s a runaway train, picking up speed with every touch, every look, every moment we spend together.
As I creep back down the hallway, I hear the bathroom door open, Sydney emerging in what I imagine is a cloud of steam and floral scent. I freeze, weighing my options. If I return now, we’ll have an awkward hallway encounter with me looking freshly guilty. If I wait, she might wonder where I went.
“Brooks?” Sydney’s voice is soft, uncertain. “You out here?”
Too late. Decision made for me.
“Yeah,” I call back, keeping my voice casual. “Just getting some water. You want anything?”
“No, I’m good.” A pause. “The bath helped. I was really tense after... everything today.”
I bet it did.
I get a glass of water and then make myself walk toward her, toward my room, like a normal person who didn’t just get off thinking about her naked in his bathtub.
She’s standing in the doorway, hair damp and piled on top of her head, wearing those ridiculous Smurf pajamas that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow are.
“Yeah, it was...” I search for a word that encompasses the awkwardness of the party, Jonah’s barely concealed hostility, and the tension thrumming between us. “...a lot.”
She nods, stepping aside to let me in. I can’t seem to stop myself from inhaling her scent as I pass—and my body, traitor that it is, stirs with interest again.
She reaches onto the dresser and picks up the blue tie I abandoned, saying, “You should wear this. It’s nice.” She brings it to her nose, inhaling. “And it smells like you.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Definitely.”
She sets it down and perches on the edge of the bed. “Thanks for what you said. At the party. About my deserving better than Jake. It was... convincing.”
There’s a question in her eyes, one I’m not ready to answer. “Just playing my part,” I say, because it’s easier than the truth.
Something flickers across her face—disappointment? Relief? It’s gone before I can tell.
“Right.” She stands. “Well, I should get some sleep. Big work prep day tomorrow.”
She pauses at her side of the bed, looking at me with those clear blue eyes that see too much. “Brooks? Are we okay?”
“We’re fine,” I lie, because what else can I say? That I just got myself off thinking about her in the bath? That I’m keeping a secret that would make her run a mile in the opposite direction?
She studies me for a moment longer, then nods, accepting the lie. “Goodnight, then.”
“Night, Syd.”
After she climbs into bed, I sit on the bed, head in my hands. Jonah was right. There’s no way I make it out of this unscathed.
But as I lie down, Sydney’s scent still lingering in the air, I’m also starting to think that maybe some things are worth getting burned for.