Page 15

Jaxon grabs two waters from the fridge and tosses me one, then feeds Bear.

I’ve heard stories about this place—it belongs to his uncle Kellan Ryan.

Seattle cop, or detective, perpetual bachelor, owner of what has to be the most expensive condo on the waterfront.

If Jaxon’s stories are true, Uncle Kellan definitely has some interesting secrets tucked away in here.

As if on cue, Bear abandons his food and barrels into me, nearly sending me into the counter.

“Bear!” Jaxon calls. “Down!”

“It’s ok.” I laugh, pushing away from the counter. “Where’s the steam shower?”

He guides me down the hall after wrestling Bear back into his crate.

The bathroom that greets us is pure luxury—something straight out of an architectural magazine.

Deep charcoal walls stretch upward, contrasting with pristine white marble floors that radiate warmth beneath my feet.

A massive teak vanity spans the entire wall, topped with sleek faucets that make the water seem to vanish into the counter.

There’s even a mounted iPad controlling everything from lights to music.

“This bathroom’s bigger than our entire dorm,” I murmur.

Jaxon’s already playing with the iPad and the lighting shifts to a deep, sultry red.

“Seriously?” I laugh. “Red lights? What kind of kinky shit is your uncle into?”

“Don’t know,” Jaxon says, still tapping away. “But he might be my favorite uncle.” His eyes light up. “No way—he’s got Fortnite on here.”

I roll my eyes and grab one of the fluffy towels stacked by the shower. While he’s distracted, I slip out of my clothes and wrap the towel around myself. “Are you going to let me shower in peace?”

“Maybe.” He catches my reflection and smirks, setting his hat on the counter before facing me. His eyes have that dangerous glint. “Or I could join you.”

The air changes—his stare is almost suffocating. Maybe it’s the steam. Or maybe it’s the fact I’m standing here trying not to combust. Damn it. I know where this leads, and I hate it. Or do I?

Maybe don’t answer that.

He reaches for the hem of his hoodie, pulling it off with that casual grace that should be illegal. He picks his hat back up, turns it backward, and his expression becomes crystal clear.

He wants me.

And I’m here for it. Logic can fuck off for the next hour.

“You could join me, I suppose.” My voice is steadier than my knees.

He presses a button and the red fades into purple. Holding up his left hand, he forms a W. “Go Dawgs.”

“Cute.” I giggle, adjusting the towel that’s barely hanging on to my dignity.

“I know, right?” He taps again and “Die for You” by The Weeknd starts. Apparently, the universe wants me to suffer poetically.

Pause. I could read into the song choice. I could analyze every lyric. But nope—I’m keeping my feelings locked down. I’m ignoring the song and burying it under six feet of denial.

“Steam, lights, and music? Damnnnn.”

He rakes his eyes down my body like he’s memorizing every inch. I know this look. It’s his ‘I want to do unspeakable things to you’ face. And those things? Worth losing my ability to form sentences for.

“This keeps getting better,” I say, heat rolling over me.

Pause again. You see him there, leaning against the wall like some GQ model who got lost on the way to a photo shoot?

Hat backward, eyes glowing under purple lights, looking like sin personified?

I can’t take it. I need him like I need air.

Jaxon’s everything I could want physically. Emotionally? He needs work.

But his body?

Un-fucking-believable.

It’s like God had an inspired day, looked at all other attractive men, said “Bitch, I got this,” and created Jaxon. He’s a walking billboard for bad decisions, and my body’s ready to make every single one.

“You know what would make it better?” I drop the towel and smile, channeling my inner seductress (who probably needs a refresher course).

“Well, definitely that, but I know something else too.” He steps forward, and my heart decides it’s time for a drum solo.

“Oh yeah?” I swallow hard, watching him. “What’s that?”

“My dick?” He smirks, eyes sweeping the field. “Cuz it definitely thinks it should be in the lineup tonight.”

Judging by the situation in his sweatpants, I’m 99.9% sure he hasn’t been playing any away games lately. If you know what I mean.

Am I going to ask? Hell no. If I don’t ask, it’s not true. Welcome to the magical land of selective ignorance, where what you don’t know can’t hurt you—until it absolutely does.

Classic girl brain logic. We should probably work on that. Later. Much later.

I stand under the shower spray, letting the steam create a dreamy barrier. He steps forward, and suddenly, breathing is optional. “You look like you could use some help. You're probably too sore from pitching to wash yourself, huh?”

“Mmm.” I bite my lip. Yes, it’s cliché. Yes, I know. But when your hormones are calling curveballs, you end up in Clichéville, population: me. We bite our lips and fuck guys who are involved with someone else.

It’s not a vacation spot I’d recommend.

“I am pretty sore.” And about to be sorer, if things go as planned.

Jaxon’s body lines up with mine like puzzle pieces. “I can fix that.” He swallows, lips parting in a way that should come with a warning label.

I want to kiss him, but I don’t. Yet. Apparently, I’ve developed some self-control in the last thirty seconds. Growth?

The music wraps around us, and I lower my eyes to his chest, then lower still. His sweatpants are soaked, clinging to him like they’re afraid to let go.

Relatable, sweatpants. Relatable.

He kisses my neck first, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the water, and reaches between us.

“Nuh uh.” I press my hands to his chest, feeling his heart hammer. “You gotta be naked to be in here with me. House rules.”

“Ah, I see.” That half-smirk appears again. “Easy fix.”

It is not, in fact, an easy fix.

He reaches for his pants. Both of us are breathing hard. I’m not even pretending to look away. My eyes are locked in. On his dick, hard as fuck and wanting me.

“Holy fuck.” His sweatpants put up a fight. “Shoulda taken these off before I got in the shower.”

“Right?” I try to help, but honestly, I’m making it worse. Four hands are not better than two here.

Jaxon stumbles back against the tile, looking less like a sex god and more like a man wrestling an octopus. “This is surprisingly difficult.”

I giggle, and his smile makes my heart pound harder.

When we’re both naked, our eyes lock. The air is electric.

His expression gives nothing away except raw want. “Come here,” he mumbles, and there’s an intensity to his voice.

I know as soon as we start kissing where this is heading. You might want me to ask about her. To clarify. To be a responsible adult.

But responsible adults don’t end up in steamy showers with baseball players. So here we are.

Wait. Is this cheating?

No, they’re just talking and he said they weren’t dating.

So really, this is okay, right?

Right? Totally fine.

If you think otherwise, fuck right off.

I’m sorry. Don’t come for me.

But coming is definitely in my future.

With Jaxon’s hands on my skin and his breath mixing with mine, ‘okay’ is a concept from another universe. One where I’m not about to make decisions that’ll make my future self facepalm.

“Hey.” Jaxon lifts my chin, his touch gentler than it should be. “Do you want this? It’s okay?—”

“I want it,” I assure him, cutting off his attempt at being responsible. Because responsibility has left the building. Being with Jaxon now feels like playing with fire while doused in gasoline, and apparently, I’m into burns.

“I can help those sore muscles.” His chest presses against mine, his body heat destroying my last shred of willpower.

He cups my cheek, tilting my face up. When our lips meet, it feels like every butterfly in the world is raving in my stomach.

He walks me backward under the spray, warm water cascading down my back as his tongue slides against mine.

He kisses me slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid I might break. Or run. Or come to my senses.

Steam swirls around us. In his arms, I can pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. I can pretend he’s still mine and wants more than this moment. But that’s not reality, and thankfully, reality’s about to become very irrelevant.

Jaxon’s wet lips move from mine to my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. “You’re so sexy,” he mumbles, cupping my breasts before his lips close around my nipple.

I lean my head back against the tile, fighting thoughts of what this means.

What’s he feeling? Is this his way of saying he wants more?

Don’t think.

No feelings.

Just sex. Don’t assume this means anything and you won’t get hurt.

I tell myself again: it’s just sex.

Jaxon’s hand moves to my hip, pulling me to him. With my back against the steamy wall, he kisses my chest and neck, and I’m full-send delulu, believing this means something.

His kiss deepens as the water streams around us. My hands find his shoulders, his skin slick and hot. The steam makes everything dreamlike. His tongue traces my bottom lip, and holy hell, he knows how to kiss.

There’s a moment when his expression shifts from lust to love, and you can’t tell me otherwise.

I see it in his eyes, the way he holds my face so tenderly.

He searches my eyes, my face, my lips, and then kisses me again.

In those seconds, the torment in his face is obvious.

He doesn’t know what this means. His tongue dives deeper and it’s one of those longing kisses where I know he’s been missing me.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes, one hand sliding down my back, the other cupping my face.

The contrast between his gentle touch and the raw hunger in his eyes does things to me. All the things. I arch into him, loving how his breath catches when I press closer. “You’re not so bad yourself.”