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His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Not so bad? I’m wounded.” But his smirk says otherwise as he backs me against the wall. The cool tile makes me gasp, and he takes full advantage, capturing my mouth again.

“You’re fine,” I breathe, pushing my tongue into his mouth.

“Less talking, more kissing,” he mumbles.

The kiss turns desperate. His hands are everywhere, leaving trails of fire across my wet skin. My hands tangle in his hair, knocking his cap off—it lands somewhere with a wet plop, but who cares about hats right now?

“Jaxon,” I whisper, and he groans.

His mouth moves to my neck. Thank god for the wall, because staying vertical is a challenge.

The shower spray hits his back, running down his ridiculous muscles. I trace a droplet down his chest, and his whole body shudders.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters into my neck, voice rough. His hands grip my hips, pulling me closer. “Actually killing me.”

I smile against his shoulder. “Cause of death: shower makeout. What a way to go.”

He laughs again, but it’s strained. Needy. “Worth it though.”

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, everything else fades away. No complications, no other people, no messy feelings we’re both pretending don’t exist. Just us, the steam, and this perfect moment.

His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling. “We should probably…”

He wants to stop? No. Not an option. “Yeah,” I agree, but neither of us moves. His thumbs trace circles on my hips, sending shivers up my spine.

“I mean, we could…”

“We could.”

And then we’re kissing again, harder, like we’re making up for all the kisses we’ve missed. His hands slide lower, gripping my thighs, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he lifts me against the wall.

The Weeknd’s still singing about dying for someone, but I barely hear it over our breathing and the water hitting tile. Everything narrows to touch, taste, feel—his mouth on mine, his hands on my skin, the way he whispers my name like a prayer.

Some decisions are bad.

Some are worse.

And some?

Some are worth every consequence after.

This? This is definitely the last kind.

Everything moves faster after that, but not because we’re rushing.

We both know this dance too well. His hands on my hips guide me to face the tile, the cool surface against my breasts making me gasp.

His body keeps me firmly in place, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go. Maybe I would.

His right hand squeezes my hip while his left claims my breast, and there’s something possessive in his touch that makes my heart stutter. My body remembers every way we fit together. Every spot he loves to touch. Every sigh that drives him crazy.

When he turns me to the wall and pulls my hips back, his hard length pressing against me, I fight back a whimper—not from the sensation, but from how right it feels. How wrong it is that it feels right.

And that’s when it hits me. My brilliant, terrible plan.

If I’m going to remind Jaxon I’m better than any other girl, I need to give him what he loves.

His dick sucked.

All guys love this. Don’t tell me otherwise. If your mascara isn’t running and you haven’t choked on him or your own spit, girl, you’re not doing it right.

I turn to face him, resting my hands on his chest. His confusion melts into understanding as I sink to my knees. The shower hits my back, but I barely notice. I’m too focused on the way his breath catches, the way his hands twitch.

Looking up through wet lashes, I give him that innocent-but-not look. “Is this what you want?”

“Fuck, Cam.” His hands cradle my face like I’m precious. “You’re so sexy. I…” The words die as I take him in my mouth.

Wait. What was he going to say?

The thought evaporates as he moans, fingers tangling in my hair. He doesn’t continue. Probably because he’s too busy moaning.

I’ve only been with Jaxon, but just because I’ve only had one person doesn’t mean I suck at giving head. Well, actually, I do. Literally.

I move my left hand to the base of his cock while sucking on the tip, my other hand cradling his balls, squeezing just enough to make him gasp and moan louder.

When I look up again, his eyes are dark with need, but there’s something else there too. Something that makes my chest ache. I swirl my tongue around the tip. “Does it feel good?”

“Oh fuck. It feels so fucking good.” His hips twitch and my lips meet my hand as I take him deeper while jerking him at the same time. “As much as I wanna come in your mouth,” he pauses, yanks me up. “I need to be inside your tight, wet pussy.”

Plan: successful.

His eyes lock onto mine, intense and hungry and maybe a little scared. Like he knows we’re crossing a line.

I nod. “Me too.”

“Wait. Shit.” Panic flashes in his eyes and he looks around. “I don’t have a condom.”

“It’s okay,” I say, grabbing his hand before he can retreat. “I’m on the shot. I haven’t been with anyone else.”

He nods, still breathing hard. For a second, I think he’s considering the risk. But he decides quick. “Okay.” And then I think I hear him say—“I… haven’t either.”

My heart stops. Restarts. Stumbles.

You heard that too, right?

I don’t have time to decipher it, because suddenly he has me turned toward the tile, kissing along my shoulders.

His lips brush my skin like he’s mapping territory he never wanted to leave. “I miss you,” he breathes, the words escaping without permission.

Tears sting my eyes, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face. I want to turn, search his expression for answers, but I’m terrified of what I’ll find.

“I need to hear you,” he pants as he slides inside, his hands moving from my hips to my breasts, like he can’t decide where he wants to be. “Gonna come for me?”

I moan as my body stretches to accommodate him, arching back. This—this is what I’d been missing. Not just the sex. Him. Us. The way we fit together.

I lean my head back, and his hand trails from my breast to my throat, squeezing just enough.

Steam rolls around us as I cry out at the force of his thrusts. His hands hold me in place, gasping, groaning, his movements speeding up as his fingers work my clit.

“Jaxon,” I whisper.

“That’s it,” he grunts, grip tightening. Curses spill from his lips, his thrusts getting harder, deeper, like he’s trying to prove something. Or forget something. I have no idea. “Let me hear how much you’ve missed me.”

The words hit harder than they should. Because I have missed him. Every single day.

His hand slides between my legs, and the pressure builds as he works my body like an instrument he never forgot. When his other hand wraps my throat, I lean back, surrendering completely.

“Oh, Cam.” His whole body trembles. “You’re gonna make me come, baby.”

Baby?

Did I hear that right?

His words come out rough, his grip tightens, and he slams into me harder, spilling himself inside me.

I wait. I don’t know what his reaction will be. Will he regret it?

Still breathing hard, he slumps forward, trailing kisses along my back.

The endearment slips out and my heart clenches. He hasn’t called me that since… since before.

He finishes with my name on his lips, a prayer or a confession. I wait, barely breathing, for regret to cloud his eyes. For reality to crash back in. I look over my shoulder at him, easing myself from the wall. He pulls out, chest heaving.

Instead, he trails soft kisses along my spine, each one feeling like an apology. Or a promise.

I turn to face him, letting the water hide any tears. Our eyes meet. His eyes pierce mine, and I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking.

Fuck. What if he regrets it?

And that’s when reality hits us both. This doesn’t change anything. His feelings, our situation, my feelings. It’s all the same.

His eyes search mine and I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking. To know if this meant as much to him as it did to me. To know if he’s as scared as I am.

Before I can decide what it means, he pulls me back in like he can’t stand the distance either. His arms are comforting, his heart pounding against mine.

“That was fun,” he says, kissing my forehead. I sigh, melting into his embrace.

I don’t say anything. I can’t. Because it was fun, but it was also devastating. Earth-shattering. Life-ruining, in the best way. I’m never going to be over him.

I keep thinking about the term from baseball—having a “cannon.” It’s when a player’s got an insanely strong arm, like they can launch the ball across the field in a second.

That’s Jaxon, honestly. Not literally, but the effect he has on me.

The way he pulls me in, it’s like he’s got this force that fires straight through every wall I try to put up.

I know I’m being stupid, but when he wants me, I’m helpless. His pull is so strong, and I’m not sure how to stop it—maybe I don’t want to. All I know is, when he throws, I catch. Every time.

We stand there, holding each other while the water runs cold, both smiling because it’s easier than admitting what this means. What we really mean to each other.

Nervousness pricks my skin and I know what I should say, but the words don’t form. I want to ask what this means, but I’m scared of the answer.

I smile, he smiles, and that’s where our night ends.

With no definition, and the unknown filling the space between us.