Page 115 of Heartless Stepbrother

My towel sat on the marble counter. Too far. A maddening arm’s length from salvation. I stretched, fingers straining through steam. I felt the hot air, felt the soft fabric ghosting the tips of my nails… but it slipped away. An inch out of reach.

Of course.

Of course it would be.

The water kept hitting tile in steady, drumming pulses. I risked another glance. His back was to me, head bowed under the spray, dark hair plastered to his neck. His shoulders flexed when he reached for the shampoo. My breath strangled itself somewhere in my chest.

This was my moment.

I rose from the bath in one fluid motion, water cascading down my skin as silently as I could manage. My feet hit the marble with a soft slap, my body trembling from the heat and the cold and the sheer mortification of being exposed in the same room where he showered like this was normal.

I darted across the few feet of floor, snatched the towel with shaking hands, and wrapped it around myself in a frantic cocoon just as he shifted in the shower.

My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I thought he might hear it over the water.

I clutched the towel tighter.

I had made it.

Barely.

I went straight for the bathroom door that led into my bedroom, water still dripping from my legs, the towel clutched to my chest like flimsy armor. My fingers slipped on the handle the first time, then the second. Useless. My pulse was a frantic drumbeat in my ears.

The door didn’t budge.

Of course it didn’t.

I had forgotten to unlock it.

A curse clawed up my throat. I fumbled for the bolt, hands trembling so badly I might as well have been wearing mittens. The metal felt too small, too slick, too far away from competence. I could barely breathe.

Behind me, Riley’s laugh rolled through the steam. Low. Amused. Infuriatingly warm.

I didn’t dare look at him. I couldn’t. Not while he was still naked in the shower behind me, water cascading over the body I was trying very, very hard not to picture.

The lock finally clicked into place. Victory came late and pathetic.

I yanked the door open, bolted through without a backward glance, and slammed it shut behind me with far more force than necessary.

The echo chased me into the room.

I hurried across the bedroom, dripping water onto the polished floors, every footstep a small betrayal of my desperation. The walk-in closet swallowed me in soft lighting and orderly rows of clothing, none of which seemed remotely appropriate for whatever nightmare he had planned. All I knew was that I had to be clothed. Fast.

My hands shook as I pulled on underwear, then something simple, something I could breathe in. A tank. Jeans. My hair clung wet to my back and shoulders, water still sliding down, but I could not stop long enough to worry about anything except not being caught half-naked in front of him again.

Not after that.

Not after seeing the long, slow way his boxer briefs had slid down his hips.

I forced the memory away, furious at myself for even having one.

A few minutes passed. The water shut off in the bathroom. My stomach tightened. Then tightened further when I heard the sound of his bathroom door open, then the soft tread of his steps crossing into his bedroom.

I went still.

Too still.

A few minuters later the door to my bedroom opened as if it belonged to him, not to me.