Chapter 70 Towel Drop
Towel Drop
She lies in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, smiling to herself.
A lazy, content kind of smile. But it doesn’t last. It morphs into a slow lip bite as her mind drifts—straight back to breakfast. The sights.
The sounds. The taste of heat curling low in her stomach.
She can’t help but let it replay in her head, moment by moment, sensation by sensation.
The fantasies she stirred with every crack of an egg, every sizzle of bacon, still echo through her like an aftershock.
But then her thoughts shift—to how the day ended. The tension at the table. The silence. The space Jaxon deliberately carved between them. He spoke, sure, but his voice wasn’t warm. His walls were back up. And she didn’t blame him.
“I want him to know I care,” she whispers to herself.
That’s when she hears the creak of the stairs and the familiar pattern of his footsteps. Jaxon. Her heart kicks. She watches his shadow drift past the light under her door and vanish into his room. A few seconds later, she hears the shower turn on.
And that’s when it clicks.
He’s in the shower. He can’t walk away.
She throws back the covers, her breath catching in her throat as she crosses the room. She opens the door carefully, peeking out to make sure Jaqueline’s door is closed. Then she sees it—Jaxon’s door, cracked open. Just enough.
She walks in slowly, her bare feet silent against the floor, her pulse deafening in her ears.
The last time I was in here, I was sleeping in his bed.
The thought makes her smile.
She turns the corner and steps into the bathroom. Steam curls thick in the air, fogging the mirror, clouding the glass. But even through the haze, she sees him. The outline of him. The shadow of muscles moving beneath water.
Her throat tightens.
Then his voice cuts through the steam.
“Are you getting in or just enjoying the show?” Jaxon teases, his tone low, roughened by heat and soap and a trace of laughter.
“I’ve already had my shower for the night,” she replies, voice just a touch higher than normal. Not because she’s nervous.
Because she’s picturing stepping into that shower. Pressing her chest against his back. Feeling his hands slide along her soaked skin and turn her around.
“So what are you doing here then?” His voice is quieter now. Closer.
“I wanted to talk, Jax,” she says, forcing herself to focus. “I don’t like how we left things today.”
“We’re good, Sara.”
“No. We’re not. And I’m not going to pretend like we are.”
He doesn’t answer right away. She can hear the water rinse through his hair, the way his hand runs along the back of his neck.
“I need you to hear me,” she says, stepping closer.
Her voice cracks, but she pushes through it.
“Last night… I’m sorry. For walking away.
For shutting you out without explaining why.
You didn’t do anything wrong, Jax. I just—when you leaned in, all I could think about was Claire.
And I panicked. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want it. ”
She exhales, slowly. Then keeps going.
“I loved everything about that night. Laying with you. Talking with you. The way your hand felt on my side... it wasn’t just comforting—it made me feel safe. It made me feel like someone actually saw me. Really saw me. And that hasn’t happened in a long time.”
She looks down, biting her lip. “The truth is... that night I ran into you in Atlanta? That sparked something in me. Something I hadn’t felt in years. I still think about it. About you. And I wasn’t leading you on last night, Jaxon. I swear to you—I wanted you to kiss me.”
His voice is soft when he answers. “I’ve thought about that night more times than I can count. Wondered what would’ve happened if I’d just walked up to you instead of taking my seat. If I’d stayed behind when the group left the restaurant. But the truth is... maybe the timing just wasn’t right.”
“And what about now?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
There’s a pause. The kind that hangs in the air and crackles.
“I think that’s up to you,” he finally says. “I’ve said everything I can say. I’ve done everything I can do—short of grabbing you so you can’t run again and kissing the hell out of you.”
The words slam into her. Her breath catches.
Grabbing. Kissing. The heat floods her all over again, this time from the inside out.
She looks at the glass again. His outline. The curve of his shoulder. The ripple of muscle under water.
One step forward.
Then another.
But her fingers curl around the doorknob instead.
“I’m glad we cleared that up,” she says, voice tight. “Goodnight, Jaxon. I’ll see you in the morning.”
And just like that, she leaves.
But the moment the door clicks shut behind her, she leans back against it, closes her eyes, and breathes like she just barely survived herself.
Because truth be told? She didn’t walk away because she didn’t want him.
She walked away because if she hadn’t—she never would’ve stopped.
Sara makes her way back to her bed, the silence of the house pressing in around her.
The conversation with Jaxon went well—too well.
They were talking again. Laughing, even.
But it’s not enough. There’s still something missing, something electric simmering just beneath the surface, unsaid and unresolved.
She tosses. Turns. The sheets feel too warm. Too empty.
The sound of the shower turning off across the hallway doesn’t help.
Her breath catches. Her brain betrays her.
Instantly, she imagines him—water dripping down his chest, his abs slick and glistening, a towel slung low on his hips.
Her thighs clench under the covers. She closes her eyes, but it only makes the image sharper. Clearer. Filthier.
She imagines walking into his room. No words. Just want. Just heat. Just her, pressing her body against his from behind, hands roaming over the muscles she’s dreamed about, her lips dragging across his damp skin while he lets out a low, dangerous sound that vibrates straight through her.
A few excruciating minutes pass.
Then she’s moving.
She pads across the hallway barefoot, pulse hammering, her nightshirt clinging to her thighs. She doesn’t knock—just cracks his door open enough to peek inside.
The bed is empty.
Her heart stutters.
Maybe he’s still in the bathroom…
She pushes the door open just enough to slip through and shuts it gently behind her. When she turns around—she freezes.
Jaxon’s standing at the window. Back bare. Shoulders broad. A towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. The moonlight spills across his skin, casting shadows over every ridge and line of his back, down to the curve of his ass barely hidden by terrycloth.
Her breath catches in her throat.
She moves before she can stop herself—like she’s being pulled by gravity.
Sara steps up behind him and slides her arms around his waist. Her hands glide across his abs, each one carved like sin itself, her fingertips tracing the grooves like she’s memorizing him.
“I thought you were going to sleep,” he murmurs, voice low and raw, vibrating through her chest.
She presses her lips to his shoulder, her voice thick with heat. “The way your body feels under my hands? Feels more like a dream.”
His muscles flex beneath her touch.
She moves around him slow, dragging her fingers across his chest as she circles to face him. His eyes find hers—icy blue and burning—and she’s not sure if it’s her fantasy or just that he looks at her like that.
Her gaze drops to his lips, plush and parted, framed by the short, dark scruff that scratches her thoughts raw.
She cups his jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip before she leans up and presses her mouth to his—soft at first. Testing. Tasting. Then deeper. Hotter. Tongues sliding. Lips crashing. A kiss made for sinning.
When they break, her breath is shallow. Her hand drifts lower.
To the towel.
She hooks her fingers between the edge and his skin, dragging slowly, deliberately, like a girl who knows exactly what she’s doing.
The tension in the knot fades. The towel slackens. Slips.
And then—just as the last whisper of cotton slides down his thighs—her eyes open.
Empty air.
Dark bedroom.
Sheets tangled around her legs and her heart pounding like she just got caught.
A dream.
Fuck. Just a dream.
She exhales hard and glances at the clock.
Only twenty minutes. Not long. But long enough to wake up soaked in the aftermath of a fantasy that felt too real. Too filthy. Too Jaxon.
She stares at the ceiling, willing herself to fall back asleep.
But all she can think about is the feel of his mouth on hers.
His abs under her palms.
His towel, dropping.
And the filthy promise of everything that came after.