I cannot be doing this.
I cannot be standing in a stranger’s shower, after the worst night of my life, thinking about the man bleeding in the next room.
Except Ace does not feel like a stranger.
That is the dangerous part.
My fingers slide over my stomach.
Lower.
A soft sound slips out of me before I can bite it back.
I go still, horrified.
The cabin is small.
The walls are probably thin.
Please do not let him hear me.
Please.
I should stop.
I really should.
Then I remember his hands on my waist. His voice saying nobody touches me now. His eyes going dark when I asked if he wanted me.
“Sweetheart.”
“You have no idea.”
My knees weaken again.
My fingers move, tentative at first, then with a little more need. I touch myself the way I have only ever done alone, in the dark, where no one can see how badly I want something I’m afraid to ask for.
Heat curls through me, sharp and embarrassing and impossible to ignore. My hips rock into my hand before I can stop them, chasing pressure, chasing relief, chasing the memory of Ace’s mouth and the way his eyes went dark when he looked at me.
I brace one hand against the tile, head bowed, water rushing over my shoulders while my body forgets every reason this is a terrible idea.
I try to stay quiet.
I fail.
His name breaks from me in a whisper I cannot catch.
“Ace.”
The sound of it wrecks me.
Pleasure rolls through me, soft and fierce, leaving me shaking in a different way than before.
For a few seconds, I cannot move.
Then reality returns with teeth.
I just touched myself in Ace’s shower.