Leo's POV

The silence in my apartment was deafening, a sharp contrast to the chaos roaring inside my skull. Seven days. I hadn't just left Elara’s house that night; I’d practically fled like a coward. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the phone resting on my nightstand. The black screen reflected my own haggard expression back at me—dark circles under my eyes, hair mussed from restless tossing and turning.

God, how long had I loved her?

I closed my eyes, and the memories washed over me, dragging me back to the hallway of our middle school. I was thirteen then, scrawny and awkward, the target of every bully with something to prove. My family’s money made me a marked boy. They cornered me near the lockers, shoving me against the cold metal, their laughter grating and cruel.

Then Elara appeared. Even at thirteen, she was a force of nature. She wasn’t just the pretty girl with the glossy hair; she was the protector. She didn’t just tell them to stop; she physically stepped between us, shoving the biggest boy back with a strength that startled everyone.

"Leave him alone," she’d snapped, her voice fierce. "If you want a fight, pick on someone your own size."

They’d scattered like roaches. She turned to me, offering me a hand, her eyes soft with a concern that made my chest ache. Since that day, she was it for me. She was the sun, and I was just the planet caught in her orbit. I’d spent years cultivating our friendship, positioning myself as the reliable best friend, the one who was always there. It wasn't that I couldn't make other friends; I just didn't want any that weren't her.

And she was completely oblivious. It was painful, really. She treated me like a brother, a safe harbor. She’d change in front of me without a second thought, complain about dates she went on, and cry on my shoulder when they went wrong. It was exquisite torture, being so close and yet so far away.

Until yesterday. When she’d looked at me with those wide, desperate eyes and asked me to teach her.

My breathing faltered just remembering it. The image of her standing there in that living room was seared into my brain. The tight leather jacket that hugged her curves, the skirt that rode high on her thighs, exposing the soft skin I’d fantasized about touching a thousand times. The air between us had shifted so suddenly, turning thick and heavy.

I remembered the way my body had reacted before my brain could catch up. A rush of blood, hard and instant, straight to my groin. For a split second, I hadn't seen my best friend. I’d seen a woman I wanted to claim. I wanted to tear that jacket off her, wanted to see if her skin tasted as sweet as she smelled. I wanted to be the one to take her virginity, to ruin her for anyone else.

But then the panic had set in. The sheer terror of screwing up the most important relationship in my life. If we did that, and it went wrong—no, when it went wrong—I’d lose her. And if her brother found out? He was protective to a fault, a walking wall of muscle and aggression who deemed Elara too precious for any man, let alone me.

So, I’d ran. I’d put on my mask of principles, spouting some nonsense about not wanting to be a practice run.

It was a lie. A total, absolute lie. I would have given anything to be her practice run. I just wanted to be her only run.

Now, sitting here in the suffocating quiet of my apartment, the regret tasted like ash in my mouth. Why did I leave her there? I knew how she felt. She wasn't just looking for sex; she was looking for connection. She was tired of being the little girl, tired of being untouched. And who better to help her than me? Someone who actually loved her?

My hands curled into fists against my knees. The thought of her going to someone else made my stomach turn. Marcus. The name flashed through my mind like a warning light. I knew Marcus was hanging around her brother's house. He was a shark, always circling. If he got a whiff of Elara’s vulnerability, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d take what he wanted and leave her broken.

I couldn't let that happen.

I stood up, pacing the length of the small room. The tension in my shoulders was coiled tight, a spring ready to snap. I was tired of being the safe option. I was tired of being the "good friend" who suppressed his desires until he felt like he was going to explode.

I wanted to fuck her. There. I admitted it to myself in the harsh light of the day. I wanted to feel her legs wrap around my waist. I wanted to hear her moan my name. I wanted to be the one to show her what pleasure felt like, to take her through it step by step until she was screaming.

The mental image was intoxicating. I could practically see her, her black hair spread out against my pillows, her pale skin flushed with desire. I imagined the weight of her breasts in my hands, the way her breathing would hitch as I touched her for the first time. I wanted to be slow, at first, to worship her body until she was begging for more. And then, when she was ready, I wanted to let go of the restraint I’d held onto for years.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the turbulent thoughts racing through my mind. Was I crazy? Was I about to destroy a decade-long friendship on the off chance that she might want me back?

No. She had asked me. She had literally looked me in the eye and said, "Teach me the ropes." She hadn't asked Marcus. She hadn't asked some random stranger. She asked me. And in my stupidity, in my cowardice,

I had pushed her away.

I stopped pacing and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were dark, filled with a hunger I usually kept buried deep. I didn't look like a friend right now. I looked like a man who had been denied too long.

I grabbed my keys off the dresser, the metal cool against my sweating palm. I needed to go back there. I needed to find her. I needed to tell her the truth.

I’m going to tell her I want to fuck her.

The thought sent a jolt of adrenaline through my system, pure and electric. I wasn't going to apologize for leaving. I wasn't going to make up excuses. I was going to lay it all out on the line. I wanted to be the one to take her virginity, not because I was her best friend, but because I was the man who loved her more than anything on this earth.

I pulled on my shoes, my movements jerky and rushed. Tomorrow. I would do it tomorrow. No more waiting.

No more hiding behind the guise of friendship. The fear was still there, clawing at the back of my mind, warning me of the consequences, but the desire was stronger. It burned brighter, consuming everything in its path.

I walked to the door, my hand shaking slightly as I reached for the handle. I was going to see her. I was going to tell her everything. The anticipation coiled in my gut, a mixture of terror and exhilaration that made it hard to breathe.

I just hoped I wasn't too late. I hoped she hadn't already decided to give up on me. Because if I walked into that house and found out she’d turned to someone else—someone like Marcus—I didn't know what I’d do.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. Tomorrow, everything changes. I’m going to make sure of it. I’m going to make Elara mine.

Elara's POV

"Nice boob."

The words hung in the air, crude and jarring, cutting through the lingering heat of the memory. That had been Marcus's first comment the moment he’d realized my silk robe was gaping open. Not an apology, not a polite averting of his eyes, but a blunt, appreciative assessment delivered with that signature arrogant smirk.

The fallout had been immediate and loud. My brother, usually composed, had been a thundercloud of protective rage. He’d banned Marcus from the house—temporarily, at least—and had turned his formidable glare onto me.

"You are not to be walking around naked anywhere in this house," he’d decreed, his voice leaving no room for argument. "It’s inappropriate, Elara. We have guests. You have a reputation to think of."

I’d rolled my eyes so hard I’d seen my own brain. "It’s my house, too. And what, exactly, constitutes 'naked'?

Am I supposed to wear a burqa to the bathroom?"

"You know what I mean," he’d growled, pacing the living room floor. "Just... keep covered. I don't want to walk in and see things no brother should ever have to see."

"God, you're dramatic," I’d shot back, crossing my arms over my chest. "What about when I shower? Can I be naked then? Or should I wash with my clothes on to preserve my delicate virtue?"

Marcus had been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest, trying—and failing—to suppress a grin. The corner of his mouth had twitched, that infuriatingly attractive dimple flashing as he fought back a laugh. My brother had shot him a look that promised violence if he uttered a single word, effectively silencing him.

That was two days ago. Now, the house was blessedly, finally empty. My brother had left for the city early that morning for a week-long business trip, and the silence was a luxury I intended to indulge in. No lectures, no prying eyes, no tension thick enough to choke on.

I padded into my bedroom, stripping off my clothes with reckless abandon. The air conditioning was broken again—a common occurrence in this old house—and the humidity was already climbing, making the air thick and heavy. I needed to wash off the grime of the day and the lingering frustration of my brother's overprotectiveness.

I didn't bother grabbing a towel. I didn't bother with a robe. It was just me in the house, alone. I walked down the hallway, the cool wood of the floorboards soothing against the soles of my feet, and stepped into the bathroom. The steam from the shower I’d started running already fogged up the mirror, turning the room into a hazy, private sanctuary.

I stepped under the spray, letting the hot water pummel my skin. It felt incredible, beating away the stress, loosening the knots in my shoulders. I washed my hair, the scent of vanilla and lavender filling the humid air, and stood there for a long time, just letting the water run over me. I felt clean. I felt free.

But as the steam began to build, the room grew uncomfortably warm. The small window was painted shut, and the exhaust fan rattled uselessly. The air grew heavy, thick with moisture, making it hard to draw a full breath. A bead of sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the shower spray.

I decided I’d had enough. I reached for the handle to slide the glass door open and step out. I turned the knob. It groaned, but it didn't budge. I frowned, water dripping from my eyelashes, and tried again. I twisted it harder, putting my shoulder into it.

Nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. I jiggled the handle, pushed, pulled, but the door was stuck fast.

The latch seemed to have jammed in the humidity, the frame swelling around the glass. I was trapped in a sauna of my own making.

"Great," I muttered, wiping the water from my face. "Just great."

I looked around for something to pry it open—a hairbrush, a bottle of shampoo—but I’d come in completely empty-handed. The heat was pressing in on me now, making my head spin slightly. I needed to get out. I needed air.

Then, through the rushing sound of the water and the buzzing in my ears, I heard a noise.

Click.

The front door.

My heart leaped. My brother was back? He never forgot anything. He must have forgotten his passport or his laptop.

"Ben!" I shouted, hoping the sound would carry through the thin walls and the running water. "Ben! I'm in the bathroom! The door is stuck!"

Silence for a moment. Then, heavy footsteps in the hallway. Boots. My heart skipped a beat. Ben didn't wear boots in the house. He strictly enforced a no-shoes policy.

"Elara?"

The voice that answered wasn't my brother's. It was deep, rough, and unmistakably amused.

Marcus.

My stomach dropped into my toes. I froze, my hands hovering over my chest, suddenly acutely aware of my complete and total nudity. The water beat down on my back, but I felt cold all over.

"What... what are you doing here?" I stammered, my voice echoing off the tiled walls.

"I forgot my phone," he replied, his voice drawing closer. I could picture him leaning against the bathroom door right now, a smug look on his face. "Ben said I could swing by and grab it. You okay in there? You sound distressed."

"I'm fine!" I lied, my voice pitching high. "Go away!"

"You don't sound fine," he said. There was a note of concern there, buried under the layers of arrogance. "Is everything okay?"

"Go away, Marcus!" I screamed, desperate now. The last thing I needed was for him to break down the door and find me standing here like a wet, naked seal. "I'm... I'm not dressed!"

A low chuckle drifted through the wood. "I'm well aware of your aversion to clothing, Elara. Open up."

"No!"

The next second, the door shook. There was a heavy thud against the frame, and then the sound of wood splintering. The lock gave way with a sharp crack, and the door swung open.

I shrieked, jumping back into the shower stall, but it was too late. He was already there.

Marcus stood in the doorway, filling the frame. The steam curled around him like a serpent, but his gaze was laser-focused, cutting through the haze. He looked at me—really looked at me. There was nowhere to hide.

The glass door was wide open, and I was fully exposed.

I saw the shock register first, his eyes widening fractionally, and then the heat flooded in. His gaze dragged over my wet skin, taking in the droplets clinging to my shoulders, the water cascading down my stomach, and the dark, triangle between my legs. He saw everything.

I reacted on instinct, slapping my hands over my breasts and crossing my legs, my face burning so hot I thought I might combust. "You pervert!" I screamed, humiliation washing over me in waves. "Get out! Get out!"

"You asshole!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "You did that on purpose!"

"I didn't," he said calmly, finally turning his back to me. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, presenting his broad back to me. "I heard you shouting. I thought you’d passed out in the heat. The steam is pretty thick in here."

I stood there, dripping water and shame, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He hadn't looked. Well, he had, at first, but he’d turned away. He hadn't leered or laughed. He’d... he’d come to check on me.

The anger drained out of me, leaving me feeling small and foolish. I was naked, wet, and humiliated, and he was being annoyingly gentlemanly.

"I... I'm sorry," I whispered, the words barely audible over the shower. "The handle jammed. I panicked."

"It happens," he said, his voice low and soothing. "Old house, cheap hardware. Ben needs to get this thing fixed."

He stood there with his back to me, the muscles in his shoulders shifting slightly under his black t-shirt. He didn't move. He didn't try to peek. He just waited.

"Can you... can you hand me a towel?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"There aren't any in here," he reminded me. "You didn't bring any in, remember?"

Right. Because I was an idiot.

"Go get one," I ordered, trying to regain some semblance of authority, even though I was currently huddled in the corner of a shower stall.

"I will," he said. He turned his head slightly, just enough that I could see the line of his jaw, the stubble darkening his skin. "But first, answer me one thing."

"What?"

"In the living room the other day," he said, his tone dropping, becoming heavier, more intent. "When I asked if you wanted to try with me instead."

My breath caught. The memory of that moment, the electricity between us, the way his voice had lowered to a sinful murmur, flashed through my mind.

"You didn't say yes," Marcus continued, his voice like velvet rubbing against raw nerves. "But you didn't say no, either. So I'm asking you again, Elara. Right now. While we're being honest."

He shifted his weight, turning just a fraction more, though he kept his eyes politely averted. The air in the bathroom seemed to vibrate with the question.

"Do you want to have sex with me?"

"Yes," I breathed, the word escaping my lips before my mind could catch up to the reckless pounding of my heart. It wasn't just a whisper; it was a confession, a surrender to the overwhelming heat that had been building between us for days.

Marcus didn't hesitate. The moment the syllable left my mouth, he turned. The polite distance, the averted gaze—it all vanished. He stepped into the shower stall, the glass door clicking shut behind him, sealing us in this swirling, humid world. The space was small, forcing our bodies close, and the sudden proximity made my head spin. He loomed over me, a towering wall of damp muscle and masculine intent, his presence consuming every inch of air.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against my chest.

Then his mouth was on mine.

It wasn't the tentative, exploring kiss I had expected from a first time. It was a takeover. His lips claimed mine with a force that stole the breath from my lungs, hot and demanding. He tasted of mint and the lingering smokiness of whiskey, a potent combination that made my knees weaken. I gasped into his mouth, my hands instinctively flying up to grip his shoulders for support. The fabric of his t-shirt was damp and hot under my palms, clinging to the hard ridges of muscle beneath.

His tongue swept past my parted lips, delving deep to tangle with mine in a rhythm that was instantly erotic.

He kissed me like he was starving, like he had been waiting years for this exact moment. My head fell back against the slick tiles, the cool ceramic a shocking contrast to the heat blooming inside me. Water sprayed around us, plastering my hair to my face and neck, but I couldn't care less. All I could focus on was the sensation of him—the rough scrape of his stubble against my chin, the large hand that spanned my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body.

I felt him then, thick and rigid through his jeans, pressing insistently against my stomach. A fresh wave of arousal crashed over me, mixing with the lingering anxiety. This was really happening. I was naked in a shower with Marcus Cole, and he was kissing me senseless.

His hands began to roam, exploring the slick expanse of my skin with a confident expertise that made me shiver. He traced the curve of my spine, his fingers rough and callused, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He molded his palms to my hips, pulling me tighter against him, grinding his hardness against my soft belly. The friction was delicious, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through my veins.

"God, look at you," he broke the kiss to mutter against my neck, his voice thick with desire. "So fucking perfect."

His lips found the sensitive spot just below my ear, sucking gently, and I moaned, my head lolling to the side to give him better access. The sound was wanton, foreign to my own ears, but I couldn't stop it. My body was responding to him with a mind of its own, arching into his touch, eager for more.

His hand slid up my ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast, teasing the heavy swell. My breath faltered, my nipples tightening into painful peaks in anticipation. When his hand finally cupped me, his weight warm and possessive, I thought I might melt right there. He kneaded the soft flesh, his thumb flicking over the sensitive bud, drawing a sharp cry from my throat.

"Sensitive," he observed, a smug edge to his tone. "I like that."

He didn't give me time to recover. His mouth descended on my other breast, hot and wet. He took the nipple into his mouth, suckling strongly, his tongue swirling around the areola in maddening patterns. I gasped, my fingers tangling in his wet hair, holding him to me. The sensation was intense, bordering on overwhelming, but it was exactly what I wanted. It was a sharp, piercing pleasure that shot straight down to my core, making my thighs clench together.

He spent a long time worshiping my breasts, alternating between deep, suctioning pulls and gentle, teasing bites. The water continued to cascade over us, plastering his shirt to his skin, but he seemed oblivious to it.

He was focused entirely on me, reading my reactions with an intuition that was almost scary. He knew exactly when to soothe and when to increase the pressure, pushing me higher and higher.

When he finally pulled away, I was panting, my chest heaving, my skin flushed a deep pink. He looked at me, his gray eyes dark with lust, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

"Turn around," he commanded softly.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, my old instincts warring with the new, burning desire. But the heat in his gaze brooked no refusal. I obeyed, turning to face the tiled wall, bracing my hands against the cool surface. I felt incredibly vulnerable like this, exposed, my back to him, water running down the length of my body.

I felt his hands on my shoulders first, strong and reassuring. He massaged the tension there, his thumbs working deep into the knots of my muscles. Then his hands slid down my back, tracing the curve of my spine, over the dip of my waist, and settling on my ass.

He groaned low in his throat, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. "You have no idea how many times I've imagined this."

He squeezed, hard, pulling my cheeks apart, and I felt a cool draft of air against my most intimate place. My face burned, but I didn't pull away. I pushed back against him silently, an invitation.

"I'm going to touch you now, Elara," he warned, his breath hot against my ear. "I'm going to make you feel good."

His hand slipped between my thighs from behind, his fingers seeking the heat of my center. He found me slick, soaked not just from the shower but from my own arousal. I heard him inhale sharply, the scent of my desire seeming to drive him wild.

"So wet," he praised, his voice a husky rasp.

He teased me at first, running his fingers through my folds, spreading my moisture, avoiding the place I needed him most. It was torture. I squirmed, trying to shift my hips to get him where I wanted him, but he held me firm, controlling the pace.

"Please," I whimpered, not caring how desperate I sounded.

"Please what?" he teased, his fingers circling my clit without touching it directly. "Tell me what you want."

"Touch me," I gasped. "Please, Marcus."

He hummed, satisfied, and finally, his fingers made contact. He stroked my clit directly, his movements firm and sure. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pure pleasure that made my knees buckle. He caught me with his free arm, holding me up against him, his other hand working me with a practiced ease.

He didn't just rub; he explored. He mapped out every inch of me, learning what made me gasp and what made me moan. He pressed on the bundle of nerves, then slid lower to circle my entrance, gathering more wetness before returning to my clit. The rhythm was slow and maddening, building the tension in my gut until I was trembling all over.

The water beat down on my back, mixing with the sweat breaking out on my skin. The small bathroom echoed with the sounds of our heavy breathing, the slap of wet skin, and the wet, slick sounds of his fingers moving against me. It was the most erotic thing I had ever experienced.

"Does that feel good?" he asked, his teeth grazing my earlobe.

"Yes," I breathed, my eyes squeezing shut. "So good."

"Good," he said. "Because I'm just getting started."

He pushed one finger inside me, and I gasped at the sudden intrusion. It was a strange, stretching sensation, not painful, but intense. He stilled, letting me adjust, his thumb brushing my clit in soothing circles.

"Relax," he murmured. "Let me in."

I took a deep breath, forcing my muscles to unclench. He began to move, sliding his finger in and out, slowly at first, then faster. He curled his finger upwards, finding a spot inside me that made me see stars. I cried out, my head falling back against his shoulder.

"Right there?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"God, yes," I moaned.

He added a second finger, stretching me further, the pressure building. The dual sensation of his fingers inside me and his thumb on my clit was almost too much. I felt like I was spiraling out of control, climbing towards something unknown but powerful.

"Let go for me, Elara," he urged, his voice rough. "Come on my fingers."

His words were my undoing. The combination of his skilled touch and the dirty talk sent me flying over the edge. My orgasm crashed over me like a tidal wave, my body convulsing in his arms. I cried out, my inner walls clenching around his fingers, waves of pleasure ripping through me. It was long and intense, leaving me breathless and weak-kneed.

He held me through it, his arm wrapping around my waist to keep me upright as I shuddered and gasped.

When the aftershocks finally subsided, I slumped against him, utterly spent.

He slowly withdrew his fingers, and I felt the loss immediately. He turned me around to face him, his gaze searching mine. He looked satisfied, a predator who had caught his prey, but there was a tenderness in his eyes that surprised me.

"You're incredible," he said softly, leaning down to kiss me again. This kiss was slower, sweeter, tasting of the lingering pleasure.

I kissed him back, my hands fumbling with the waistband of his jeans. I wanted to see him, to touch him, to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he had just given me.

He helped me, undoing the button and zipper, pushing the wet denim down his hips. He kicked them aside along with his boots, standing before me in nothing but his boxers. The wet fabric clung to his erection, outlining the thick length of him. My eyes widened, a spike of nerves mingling with my renewed arousal.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down. His cock sprang free, thick and proud. It was bigger than I had expected, the head flared and angry-looking, veins running down the shaft. I stared, fascinated and slightly intimidated.

He saw my look and chuckled, wrapping his hand around his length, stroking slowly. "Don't worry," he said, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur. "I'll make sure you're ready."

He stepped closer, backing me against the wall again. He lifted one of my legs, wrapping it around his waist, opening me up. The head of his cock nudged against my entrance, hot and hard. I gasped, my body tensing in anticipation.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I met his gaze, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"I want you to remember this," he said. "Every single second."

He reached between us, positioning himself at my entrance. He pushed forward slowly, the thick head stretching me wide. I groaned at the sensation, a mix of burning stretch and intense fullness. He stopped when he was an inch in, letting me breathe, letting me adjust.

"Breathe, Elara," he coached, his jaw tight with restraint. "Just breathe."

I exhaled a shuddering breath, relaxing my muscles. He pushed in another inch, then another. The sensation was overwhelming—too much, and not enough. I felt invaded, claimed, owned. He was filling me up, stretching me in ways I hadn't thought possible.

Finally, he was fully seated inside me. I gasped, feeling impossibly full. He stilled, burying his face in my neck, breathing hard.

"Fuck," he gritted out. "You're tight."

He waited for a moment, letting me get used to the size of him. Then, he started to move.

He pulled out almost all the way, leaving just the head inside, before thrusting back in, slow and deep. The friction was incredible, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through my veins. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke deliberate and powerful. My hands gripped his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as he fucked me against the shower wall.

The water was still running, but I didn't feel it anymore. I was lost in the sensation of him—the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming pleasure. He was hitting that spot inside me with every thrust, driving me higher and higher all over again.

"Marcus," I moaned, my head falling back. "Oh god."

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice strained. "Take it. Take all of me."

He increased his pace, his thrusts becoming harder and faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the small room, mixing with our heavy breathing. He lifted my other leg, wrapping both around his waist, impaling me fully on his cock. I was suspended in his arms, completely at his mercy, and I loved it.

He angled his hips, hitting a spot that made me cry out. "There," I gasped. "Right there."

He smirked against my neck, focusing his attention on that spot, driving into me with ruthless precision. I could feel the pressure building again, that coil of tension tightening in my gut.

"You're going to come again for me," he stated, it wasn't a question. "Come around my cock."

His words, combined with the relentless stimulation, pushed me over the edge. My second orgasm hit me harder than the first, a blinding explosion of pleasure that made me scream. My body convulsed, my inner walls clamping down on him, milking him as he thrust through my spasms.

He groaned, his movements becoming erratic. "I'm close," he warned.

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside me and came. I felt him pulse, his warmth flooding me, marking me from the inside out. He held me tight, his face buried in my neck, his breathing ragged and harsh.

We stayed like that for a long time, the water turning cold, his weight pinning me against the wall. Slowly, reality began to seep back in. The guilt, the confusion, the overwhelming realization of what I had just done.

He pulled out of me gently, lowering my legs to the floor. I felt shaky, unsteady, and leaned back against the tiles for support. He reached for the shampoo, lathering his hands, and began to wash my hair with a tenderness that made my heart ache.

The intimacy of the act was almost more than I could bear. This wasn't just sex. This was possession. This was a claiming.

He rinsed my hair, the water cascading over us, washing away the evidence of our joining. When he was done, he turned off the water, the silence sudden and loud in the small room.

He grabbed a towel from the rack—miraculously, there was one there now, perhaps he’d brought it in with him—and wrapped it around me. He rubbed my back, his touch soothing.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice quiet.

I looked up at him, my eyes searching his. "I... I think so."

He nodded, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He stepped out of the shower, grabbing another towel for himself. I followed him, my legs feeling like jelly. We stood in the steam-filled bathroom, the air thick with the scent of sex and vanilla.

Then, a chime cut through the silence.

My phone, sitting on the counter, lit up with a notification.

Marcus turned to look at it, then back at me, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You might want to check that."

I picked it up with trembling fingers. The screen was bright in the dim light. The message was from Leo.

Two words. Simple. Devastating.

I do.