The shower turned on, water spraying. It sounded close, like she’d chosen the one just down the hall, and I went rigid at the thought of her, water running down her body. I had only the barest idea of what she looked like. Her clothes were so damn bulky and shapeless, but I knew what she felt like against my chest, how her thighs spread between mine.

But how did her hips curve?

I didn’t move from my spot. Listening to the water spraying. My cock pressed against my sweats, a wet spot darkening the fabric. Since she came on my thigh, I couldn’t get the thought of her pussy out of my damn head. Now I was picturing it—her—naked, wet.

Water dripping down her gingerbread skin.

Between her thighs.

Fuck it.

It’s like porn. It doesn’t mean shit if I jack off to her. I slid my hand beneath my pants, grasping hot, rigid flesh, determined to finish what I’d started earlier. Get it out of my system.

I stroked myself to the spray of the shower, the image of her like a siren calling to me. Her skin is so fucking soft. The kind for kissing and sucking and biting. She hides so much of it. I bet it’s soft everywhere. I groaned, the doorknob digging into my back.

Bite me harder.

Fuck—that hickey I gave her is faded. I want to mark her again. Cover her in bruises. Between her thighs. On her cunt.

My grip tightened. I tugged.

Hear her gasp when I sink my teeth and tongue into her.

Feel her nails dig into me.

Her—oh—shit.

I banged my head against the door, coming with a groan as my orgasm ripped its way out of my body.

I breathed in and out, sweat beading my throat and chest. Holy shit. I can’t remember the last time I came that hard or fast from jerking off.

I lifted my hand at the sticky mess.

Or the last time I came on my hand.

I don’t know what it is about her. Everything was the opposite of what I should want. She looked a little bit like Lottie, but she was nothing like Lottie. Lottie was quiet, reserved. Contrary to her outfit, this girl was a blaring siren.

I know despite whatever we talked about last night, Snitch was still like every other girl out there, someone who only knew the Grayson Crowne. Whether it was my money, my name, or what they printed in the magazines, whatever she’d fallen for was a mirage. And like them, she’d eventually seek to take.

I cleaned up and decided on a very fucking cold shower. Maybe by the time I was done her hair would be dry. The thought of wet curls dripping around her heart-shaped face, soaking into her clothes—fuck.

I shook my head.

Ice-cold shower.