CHAPTER EIGHT

JORDAN

The water is cold, yet my body burns from the inside out. Each stroke of my cock is rushed, messy, as though urgency itself drives my hand.

I grip tighter, pumping faster, trying to drown out the sound of his voice in my head, the phantom weight of his body still lingering on mine.

“Damn it…” I bite down on my lip, swallowing a groan.

I try to picture anyone else’s face, but none come to me. The only one that appears is Alaric’s—his wide grin seared into my mind.

I shut my eyes, desperate to conjure another image. Anyone. But it’s useless. His face, sharp and unyielding, stares back at me, looking as though he owns every part of me. My pace falters, but the need won’t let me stop.

The pressure builds—sharper, faster—until it breaks. Heat floods me, spilling over my fingers, mixing with the water swirling around my thighs.

My chest heaves as I slump forward, forehead pressed to the slick wall. Relief washes through me in weak waves, but it’s fleeting.

I sink lower into the water, breath ragged, body trembling with the remnants of release. But it isn’t enough. The fire hasn’t left; it only digs deeper, demanding more.

With a groan, I stretch out, lying back until the cold ground beneath me presses into my shoulders.

My thighs fall open without thought, shameless in my need. My hand drifts lower, fingertips circling my entrance hesitantly before pressing down, testing.

The sting makes me hiss, but hunger is louder than pain. I push a finger inside, tight heat clenching around it, my back arching as a startled gasp rips from my throat.

And then, the door slams open.

I freeze, breath caught, eyes snapping wide.

He’s there.

Alaric.

Standing in the doorway.

Watching me.

For a heartbeat, shame scorches me. He’s caught me. He’s watching. But I won't stop.

I can’t.

My body is far beyond reason. My finger keeps moving, hips jerking upward as I chase the edge again, a groan spilling from my lips despite myself.

I don’t dare meet his eyes. I don’t want to see if it’s disgust or amusement on his face. I only know I can’t stop.

And then, he moves.

His footsteps echo on the wet floor, steady, unhurried, until he looms above me. My chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, my hand still working between my legs.

Without a word, his hand closes over my wrist. He grips firmly, pulling it away before guiding me up, lifting me to my feet as though I weigh nothing. I’m trembling, still swollen with need, water streaming down both our bodies.

He says nothing. Absolutely nothing. He only reaches past me and turns the water hotter. Steam rises, thick between us.

His hand remains on me, steady, controlling as he takes the soap and begins to wash me, slow strokes over my shoulders, my arms, my chest.

Not a single word.

The silence is unbearable. Each drag of his hand makes my pulse pound harder, my breath catch in my throat. Finally, I can’t take it.

“What… what are you doing?” My voice cracks, hoarse, desperate for anything from him.

For the first time, he speaks. His tone is low, calm, almost a warning.

“Be quiet.”

The words slice through me sharper than any shout. My lips part, but no sound comes, only a gasp, soft, broken as his touch slides over me again. My body trembles, torn between shame and surrender, between the urge to resist and the pull to give in completely.

I squeeze my eyes shut, chest heaving, the last threads of strength slipping through my fingers. A soft sound escapes me—half-groan, half-plea—and then the world tilts.

The steam, the water, his touch, they all blur together. My knees buckle, body collapsing into the heat.

And then everything goes blank.