Page 7

Lily

Silas doesn’t take a long shower. Seven minutes tops. Enough time to let cool water douse his flushed skin from earlier.

He barely gives me time to smother the heat crawling under my skin—just long enough to press my thighs together, drag in a shaky breath, and try to pretend I’m not imagining the water sluicing down his back. Then, like the jerk he is, he swings the bathroom door wide open.

Steam rolls out in a thick, hazy wave, carrying the scent of his soap clinging to damp skin.

Despite finding me clutching my nightwear in a tight grip, he doesn’t move out of my way. Not immediately.

Leaning against the doorframe like he owns the very air between us, I take notice that he’s wearing nothing but those same plaid pants slung low on his hips from the night before.

The only difference? He’s not wearing a shirt today.

My gaze trips over him, greedy and traitorous. Water glistens on his collarbone, the defined cut of his stomach, and those few scattered freckles I want to trace with my tongue. By the time I drag my eyes up to his, my cheeks are burning.

Amusement flickers in his dark stare, his mouth tilting as he watches me squirm. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to. A test of strength forms in the way he flexes his forearm against the doorframe, muscles tensing like he’s holding himself back. Or maybe just savoring the way my breath hitches.

Does he get off on this? Does he enjoy teasing me until I’m wound tight, until my nails bite into my palms, only to walk away, leaving me aching, furious, and wanting?

If this is his goal, well, it’s working.

He takes in my belongings in my grip, his mouth twitching when he notices my shampoo bottle. “And here I thought you forgot to pack that. Good to know.”

Meaning—he noticed I used his soap. Now that’s embarrassing.

Huffing as I dip under his arm, I don’t waste time shutting the door on him to finally block him out. I’m clawing at my clothes, demanding relief as I twist at the shower knobs to get the water going.

I don’t need my imagination of him showering or breathing in his soap to turn me on. My body is already on fire, my clit throbbing and begging for attention. It has been ever since he got his hands on me.

I’m torturing myself by letting this simmer. Letting him win.

The shower’s spray is cold, but it does nothing to douse the fire under my skin. I scrub my hair too hard, lather my body too fast, my movements sharp with frustration. When my fingers finally dip lower, skimming the slick heat between my thighs, I freeze.

Is this really it?

Am I really going to fold every time Silas riles me up, fingers curling into my own flesh because he refuses to do it himself? It’s pathetic. Worse—it’s unfair.

Why does he get to stroke this hunger and walk away untouched? Why am I the one left breathless, my body a battlefield of unslaked need, while he smirks from the sidelines?

I let him set the pace, silently hoping to give me a continuation.

Not again. Not this time.

I’ll be the one to make the move.

So, instead of relieving the intense throbbing between my thighs, I get out of the shower.

Fumbling with getting dressed, I abandon the bathroom to hunt him down. Hair still dripping, skin still flushed from scrubbing, I find him sitting so comfortably on his couch. When he feels my stare, he looks my way.

I don’t give him time to speak. Instead, I’m stomping toward him. Heart racing and lungs burning from forgetting to breathe, my hands curl into fists.

“Lily–” He chokes on my name, his eyes struggling to pick where to stare.

“You are the most frustrating man I’ve ever met. Infuriating, actually. The list might not be long, but you are number one.” My chest heaves as the words come flowing out.

His brows suddenly furrow deep, his eyes narrowing. “How long is the list?”

I’m ready to strangle this man. Right now, I can’t tell if I want to use my hands or my thighs. “ Why does that even matter? Seriously. You—”

A raw, guttural sound tears from my throat, made up of half frustration, half surrender, as I fling my hands wildly between us.

Words evaporate like steam on my tongue. Who is this person I’ve become under his watchful gaze? This reckless, hungry creature who can’t stop staring at the way his bare chest rises with each controlled breath?

The power shift hits me like a lightning strike. For once, he isn’t the immovable mountain looming over me. For once, those broad shoulders are level with my heaving chest, his stormy eyes looking up through dark lashes as I loom over him instead.

I can reach him now.

The realization sends me stumbling forward before my brain catches up. My knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, my frown mirroring his as my fingers dig into the rock-hard muscle of his bicep to steady myself.

I expect resistance. A firm grip to halt my advance. Another infuriating display of his self-control.

Instead, his hands slam onto my hips with enough force to bruise, yanking me down until I’m straddling him completely. Every nerve ending ignites as I feel him, all of him, thick and straining against me through the thin barrier of our clothes.

A ragged groan escapes him when I instinctively roll my hips, the friction drawing twin sounds of pleasure from us both.

“Stop holding back,” I pant against his lips, our breath mingling in the charged space between us. My nails scrape down his chest, reveling in the way his abs contract under my touch. “Unless you’re scared you can’t handle what happens when you finally let go.”

I’m not a handful. Maybe a pain in the ass, but so is he. We’re perfect for each other. Can’t he see that?

When he growls, a shiver rolls through my body.

Acting like he’s the one suffering here, he slips his hands under my shirt and glides his fingers against my skin.

As he leans forward, the heat of his breath against my chest makes my pebbling nipples against the fabric so obvious.

No wonder he was struggling to pick where to stare.

“I’m scared you’ll leave once I do,” he admits in a hoarse whisper.

My heart flutters when I see the hunger in his gaze, the attempt to keep himself under control.

Is that what this has been all along?

“I’m not going anywhere.” I cradle his bearded cheeks, my thumbs brushing the sharp planes of his cheekbones. My hips roll again, slower this time, grinding against the hard length of him, and his groan vibrates through my palms.

His mouth is right there—those teasing lips I’ve caught myself staring at all day. A shiver races up my spine as I trace his lower lip with my thumb.

How have I managed to survive this long without it?

I crash into him, sealing our mouths together in a kiss that feels like relief and catching fire all at once.

His restraint shatters—tongue sweeping against mine, hands dragging me impossibly closer—and I melt into the heat of him, into the delicious truth that he’s just as gone for me as I am for him.

His hands slide under the waistband of my shorts without warning, those rough carpenter’s palms gripping the bare curves of my ass with a possessiveness that wrings a whimper from my throat.

His fingertips dig in just shy of where I need them, teasing the crease of my thighs—so close to my aching pussy I can already feel the slick heat between my legs.

“Do I have to beg you to touch me?” I ask him in a blur, panting against his tongue.

His entire body lights up, and my body aches underneath another heavy squeeze. “ Yes .”

That proves it. This man enjoys making me suffer. He might not know it, but his cock does. I don’t think it can get any harder from beneath me.

I want to know what it looks like. Even if I’m a virgin, I want to wrap my fingers around every swollen inch and guide it between my thighs. I want it badly.

Moving to rest my forehead against his shoulders, I grind harder to get a little friction. How embarrassing. Since we’ve gotten this far, there’s no turning back. No point in telling him anything but the truth.

“Silas.” Pleading his name, my teeth graze his throat. Against my tongue, I can feel his pulse racing. “Touch me, please. I’ve never been this wound up before. I don’t know what to do.”

His fingers inch closer, but it doesn’t matter. My underwear is in the way. If I’d been more clumsy, I could’ve forgotten to put them on. Instead, I’m left with regrets.

As easy as it would be for him to work his way beneath them, he does the opposite. Pulling his hands away entirely, I don’t have enough time to argue. Not when he’s turning me around.

“Lift your hips.” The command rumbles against my ear, rough and deep, sending a shiver down my spine. His voice is pure sin—a promise and a threat all at once.

I didn’t think it was possible to ache more for him, but my body betrays me, heat pooling low as I obey.

His fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts and underwear, dragging them down my thighs with deliberate slowness. The fabric rasps against my skin, and then I’m sinking back onto his lap, bare this time, the hard lines of his body searing into me.

His touch lingers at my knees, teasing, before he shoves the last of my clothing away. Left in nothing but my shirt, I feel the cool air kiss my exposed skin—but it’s nothing compared to the fire of his gaze.

Then his thighs flex beneath me, spreading me open, and my breath hitches. His mouth brushes my ear, lips grazing just enough to make my pulse stutter.

Don’t move. Don’t squirm.

But it’s agony not caving to this. Every inch of me is hyperaware—the cotton of his pajama pants beneath me, the possessive grip of his hands, the way his breath fans hot over my neck.

I’ve never felt so exposed. So vulnerable.

“You say I’m frustrating, Lily,” he murmurs, and the words are a slow, wicked caress. “But you don’t have a clue what that word means.”

His palm skims down my stomach, fingertips tracing idle, maddening circles. Lower. Lower. My muscles tense in anticipation, my thighs trembling as he inches closer—

“I’m at my wits’ end.” The raw hunger in his voice undoes me.

Then his fingers finally find where I need him most, brushing lightly, teasingly over the slick slit of my pussy.

A gasp escapes me, and he growls in response, his touch growing with pressure.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my ear. “What does your pretty little pussy look like? Since I can’t see it… I need to know.”

I whimper as his fingers part my swollen lips, stroking slow, torturous lines through my wetness. His fingers avoid my clit on purpose, deliberately making a whine catch in the back of my throat.

“Is it pink?” he asks, voice rough. “Soft and pink like the rest of you? Or does it blush darker when you’re this desperate?”

“Y-yes,” I pant, arching into his touch. I’m not usually this open, but people don’t normally demand to know things about my pussy.

Silas is more than I could have ever prepared myself for.

“Fuck,” he groans, circling my clit with agonizing precision. “Knew it would be. Knew you’d be perfect here too.”

His thumb presses harder, and I moan, clutching at his arms. He doesn’t yank away or hiss when my nails dig deep. If anything, I think it turns him on. Finally, he presses against my sensitive nub, rubbing just right to make my hips jerk.

My fingers have never felt this good. I’ve never brought myself to an orgasm so quickly, but at this rate, I’ll be soaking his fingertips in no time.

“Every time you open your mouth, it drives me insane.” Rumbling the truth, he reaches up with his free hand to turn my face, angling us for another slow, torturous kiss. All tongue and hunger, he devours my next moan.

My breath hitches as his fingers slide lower, dipping inside just enough to tease. Slowly, he works in one finger, curling it between my velvety walls.

When he inhales sharply, I know my secret is out. My tightness is impossible to hide, even more so when he presses in a second,

My virginity doesn’t make him yank away, Instead, it makes him groan low and deep like it’s me stroking his cock instead of him feeding my arousal.

While he soaks his fingers, his thumb returns to my clit, brutally giving me dual stimulations strong enough to make my thighs quiver.

“That’s it,” he rasps, his mouth hot against my throat. “Let me see how pretty you are when you come.”

And when his fingers curl just right, when his thumb flicks in tight, relentless circles—I do.

My walls clamp around his fingers and stars take over my vision, leaving me blinded. As I pinch my eyes shut and my throat aches from crying out, I’m left as nothing but a puddle against his lap.

This man has officially done it.

I am gone. There is no going back to an addiction less sweet.