• Eric Bolton •
I'm never doing this again.
It woke up a bit earlier than I anticipated. I hardly slept through the night anyways. The couch wasn't as soft as the bed I left at home, and this apartment wasn't as refreshing as I hoped it might end up becoming.
The cushions I had pretended to use as pillows only made my neck started aching, up to the back of my head like someone suffering from a morning migraine.
But if only she had allowed me to sleep in her bed, maybe, I'd have enjoyed my first night with in NYC. Too bad, she was afraid of... Me.
Not that I intended to do something dark and stupid.
I mean, we were just gonna sleep and maybe cuddle.... If she wanted that? Or... Maybe, go down the dirty path if she had the guts....to.
But meh, this is what I got.
A freaking couch.
And since she wanted us to spend the day at the office, who was I to reject her proposal?
*
I dragged myself off that damn couch, every bone in my body groaning. My neck hurt, my back hurt, and I swore I could still feel the springs stabbing through the cushions.
The bathroom door gave a soft squeak when I pushed it open. First thought? Huh. This place was nicer than I expected. Clean tiles, spotless mirror, and the faint smell of lavender soap. Like nobody really used it.
Then my eyes landed on a couple of things that screamed otherwise. A lacy bra dangling off the rack. A bottle of shampoo half-open. Her scent was faint but clung to the place like smoke.
I swallowed hard and shook my head, peeling off my clothes.
"Don't be a creep, Eric," I muttered, but hell if my eyes didn't slide back to that bra once more before I stepped under the shower.
The water hit me cold, shocking the air out of my chest. I sucked in a breath and leaned against the tiles, letting it run over my skin. Every drop felt sharp, clean, like it was chiseling the tiredness right out of me. My hand slid the scrubber over my shoulders, down my chest, across the lines of muscle I'd worked too damn hard for. Shampoo foamed in my hair, dripping down.
I closed my eyes.
And realized that it was a mistake.
Because all at once, it wasn't me in the shower anymore. It was her. Her fingers sliding soap across my back, her body pressed flush to mine, her breath hot against my neck. My jaw clenched as the thought sharpened, her pinned against the wall, my lips dragging along the nape of her neck, her legs trembling around my waist.
"Fuck…" The word slipped out low.
And then it happened. My hand brushed lower, just enough to feel how hard I'd gotten without even meaning to. My breath caught, chest heaving as I gripped my cock. The sound of water filled the silence, but in my head it was her voice, her gasp, her whisper saying my name.
I stroked harder, faster, the cold water useless against the heat building in my veins. My forehead hit the tiles, groans tearing out of me in ragged bursts until I couldn't hold it anymore. The release ripped through me with a violent shudder, a strangled curse torn from my throat.
"Goddamn it."
I looked down at the mess, at the water washing it away, and shook my head, biting back another curse. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. First night in New York, and I'd already lost it in her damn shower.
I scrubbed myself clean again, let the water pound on my skin until I felt human, and forced a smirk into the mirror as I stepped out. Fine. Whatever. Today was going to be good. I'd make sure of it. I'd play it cool.
…Not that I ever really could.
I wanted to make her mine....
Mine and mine alone.....
I moved slower than I ever had in my damn life, the towel hanging low on my hips as I padded through the corridor. The water from the shower still clung to my skin, running in lazy rivulets down my chest, my hair dripping against the nape of my neck. Every step felt like it echoed too loud, like I didn't belong here like I was trespassing in a space that wasn't mine.
The corridor wasn't much ahead, shadows curling along the edges, and just as I was about to step into the lounge, something twisted in my gut. My eyes snagged left, right where her door stood closed.
Only… not completely closed.
I froze. Then, like something invisible tugged me, my feet moved before my brain could argue. Each step dragged me closer, my heart thumping so damn hard I thought it might rattle the doorframe itself. When I finally stood in front of it, I hesitated, my palm hovering then I pushed. Just slightly. Just enough for the hinge to whisper against the silence.
The sliver of space gave me sight. And what I saw damn near punched the air out of me.
Ilsa.
Her hair wet, strands clinging to her shoulders. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, moving across the room with a careless grace that made my throat tighten. The soft cotton clung to the outline of her hips, her waist, her everything. She wasn't alone either. Her phone was tossed on the bed, speaker on. A man's voice filled the air, low and deep, threading through the room like smoke.
I froze, watching her, and immediately knew I shouldn't be here. Every rational part of my brain screamed to leave but my body betrayed me. I wanted her… all of her… and right now, the only way to feel close was to keep watching.
"So dinner, then?" she said lightly, adjusting her robe as she picked at something on the dresser.
"That sounds like a great idea," the man answered, his laugh rough, confident. "But what time?"
"Maybe seven?" she murmured, smiling in a way that made my teeth grind.
"I bet your dinner will taste just as good as you."
She laughed, actually laughed, rolling her eyes as she replied, "Don't be such a pervert. I'm not inviting you to my place. It's currently occupied."
The man's growl carried through the speaker, low and mocking. "Oh right… you're babysitting Bolton's kid."
Her smile softened, almost fond. "Yeah… and he's quite a handful, if you ask me."
My fists clenched at my sides. A handful? Really? Who the hell was this guy? And why the fuck did she sound so damn comfortable with him?
But my jealousy snapped into something hotter, darker, because in the next heartbeat she untied the robe.
I swore under my breath, heat flooding through me as the fabric slipped from her shoulders, falling in a careless heap at her feet. My breath went uneven, chest rising too fast, as her bare skin caught the dim light. She bent forward slightly, picking up a lacy pair of panties from the bed. The curve of her back, the sway of her hips. It had my throat working, my jaw tight.
"Fuck…" I growled, too low to be heard, my nails biting into my palms.
What did she think she was doing? Couldn't she see I was standing just behind her? Watching her every move like a predator?
She slid the panties on, slow and casual, like she had no idea she was killing me. Then she turned toward the mirror in front of her.
And that's when it happened.
Her emerald eyes caught her reflection and mine through it. I jolted back, pressing my spine to the wall, forcing myself to look away for a second, heart hammering. I shouldn't be here. I had to leave. But a small, stubborn part of me stayed, burning to see her… just one more moment.
Inside, I heard her as she gasped, sharp and sudden. A shiver raced down my spine, wondering if she indeed saw me....or at least that's what she thought she saw.
"What's wrong?" the man's voice came quick, concerned.
"It's nothing," she said, her tone clipped. "I thought I saw… something."
I swallowed hard, heart racing, her image seared into me.
I didn't need to touch her. Not yet. All I wanted was her attention, her laughter, her acknowledgment… proof that she saw me, that she felt me, too.