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“Driving you home, remember?” I toss the food log on her desk. “Also figured you’d want this.”

Our fingers brush. Electricity. Again.

“You could’ve emailed.”

“Didn’t want to.”

She watches me. Knows something’s off. Doesn’t press.

“Your hair’s different.”

Her hand moves to fix it, but I stop her. “Leave it. It’s perfect.”

She stills. Not just from the compliment. From the way I say it.

“Liam... we can’t—”

“Why not?” I step closer. “Feels pretty fucking real to me.”

Her eyes flutter shut. And when they open, she’s putting the walls back up.

“You should go.”

I should.

I don’t.

Instead, I brush her cheek with my knuckles. Light. Filthy in how gentle it is.

“See you around, sweetheart.”

And then I walk out. Before I do something we can’t come back from.

By the time I get home, I’m wound so tight I could snap steel.

I barely make it through the door before I’m ripping my shirt over my head, kicking off my boots, stripping down until I’m bare and pissed and hard in every way a man can be.

The water’s on full blast before I can even think. Scalding. I don’t care. I step in, let it burn.

But it’s not enough.

I see her. Katarina. Bent over that fucking clipboard like I didn’t almost have her against the wall yesterday. Like she didn’t look at me today with that same soft heat in her eyes. That same breathlessdon’twhen what she meant wasdon’t stop.

My hand wraps around my cock —tight, impatient, furious.

And just like that, I’m back in the equipment room.

Her breath catching. Her body soft, needy, arching into mine like she wanted to be devoured.

I picture her in front of me now, steam curling around her bare shoulders, water sliding down her tits—those perfect tits I haven’t gotten my mouth on yet. Her knees sinking to the wet tile, hair clinging to her skin, lips parted.

She looks up at me with that knowing smirk, mouth already open, already waiting.

“Yeah,” I grit out. “That’s it, sweetheart…”

I grab a fistful of her hair, pull her closer. Her hands brace on my thighs as I push into that warm, wet mouth. Slow, at first—until she moans around me and I lose every shred of control I’ve got left.

I fuck her throat deep and steady, my hips snapping forward, her eyes watering and still locked on mine. No gag, no protest—just need. Just filthy, greedy need.