Chapter Eleven

Fletcher twisted the knobs on the shower and forced himself to step into the hot, scalding water without testing it first. It felt good, the sharp stabs of pain against his skin, the steam working up where it hit the chill of the bathroom.

He’d never been much of a one for cold showers—and even though one was certainly in order, as his throbbing erection attested, he preferred the agony of too much. Too much heat, too much sensation, too much emotion, too many memories of how Lexie’s lips felt giving way under his. It was better to get it all out now.

That was the only way he’d be able to face her later. How had he let himself get so carried away? In all the years he’d known Lexie, he’d been a lot of things he wasn’t proud of. Lonely. Needy. Obsessed.

But he’d never been mean before.

With a groan, he rested his head and hands against the cool tile, letting the water continue to sluice painfully across his body. His skin grew red and heated, his cock doing much the same. Release was the only option, even though the last thing he wanted to do right now was reward his body for its actions.

He didn’t reach for the soap or conditioner, instead fisting his erection and working the length with an almost bruising roughness. The intensity of his grip would make short work of this particular task, and that suited him just fine. Get in, get off, get out.

It was only by a chance fluke that he bothered looking up at all. A quiet shuffling, a heavy breath—he’d never know for sure if he actually heard those things or if his imagination inserted them later. All he knew was that one moment he was alone in the room with the angriest erection he’d ever had in his life, and the next, Lexie was there with him, standing in front of the closed bathroom door. She was perfectly still, one half of her face visible where the shower curtain hung open, lips parted and eyes wide.

She was watching.

Fletcher’s first and natural reaction was to recoil, to pull the curtain around him and howl at her to leave. This was his agony, his shame—and her being witness to it only made him that much more of a beast.

But the beast came back before he could give in to any of those more appropriate reactions. It demanded that he turn to her, his throbbing dick even more visible, angry and hot. It demanded she recognize that this was her doing just as much as it was his. Everything had been fine until she started pushing in and changing things.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

“I thought . . . ” The words died on her lips. Of course they did. He was pointing at her with his erection.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

She spoke, but the sound of the beating water made it impossible to hear her.

“What?” he—no, the beast—demanded.

“You’re mad,” she repeated, and for the first time, shock began to register on her face. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the kind of shock that came from confronting a man at what had to be the worst possible moment in his life. She seemed surprised that he was capable of such an emotion. “Fletcher, you’re mad, aren’t you? At me?”

“Of course I’m mad,” he managed, lifting a hand and bracing himself against the wall. “You have absolutely no idea, do you, what it’s like for me? Everywhere I turn, you’re right there, always smiling, always happy. Seeing you is the best part of my day. But you know what? It’s also the worst part of my day. Because no matter how many years I’ve spent trying to convince myself that being your friend is enough, the truth is that it’s not. I want more out of my life than to sit around waiting for a pager to go off. I deserve more.”

He had never seen a woman remove her shirt so efficiently before. One moment she was across the bathroom, staring at him like he was an ogre, and the next, she was inches from him, standing there in leggings and a lacy blue bra.

“What are you doing?” He barely recognized his own voice, was even more of a stranger to his body, which strained toward her with so much force he had a hard time keeping himself in check.

“I’m coming in.” The bra came off next. He saw it coming, the way her arm twisted around to her back to undo the clasp, and turned away right before he saw anything other than the brief flash of her impossibly firm, delicate breasts. “You’re not doing that right.”

He closed his eyes and bit back a bitter laugh. This wasn’t happening. Not like this. He’d pictured Lexie naked so many times it was impossible for him to feign indifference. It was impossible for him to push her away.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try.

“Please don’t.” He spoke sharply but didn’t move. He didn’t trust his limbs right now. “The last thing I need right now is for you to take pity . . . ”

“It’s not pity. I just think you could use a softer touch, that’s all.” Then Lexie was naked. And she was in the shower with him.

She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, stray fingers dangling dangerously close to his erection. She was gloriously slippery and soft, and he was pretty sure the flick of just one of her fingers would be enough to have him making a complete fool of himself.

“Don’t be mad at me,” she said, pressing her mouth into his back as she spoke. It was probably the most intimate kiss he’d received in his life; so much more than a meeting of mouths, it was a suspension of time and belief. “Let me make it up to you.”

“No.” There was so much contained in that syllable, it was impossible for Fletcher to do or say anything more. He turned to face her, taking her roughly by the shoulders and forcing her to step back. Keeping his eyes above her neck was probably one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life, but he did it, even when the brightness of her smile faltered. “This isn’t fair, Lexie, and you know it. Don’t touch me unless you mean it. Don’t cross this line unless you’re prepared to see what’s on the other side.”

The corners of her mouth quivered, and because Fletcher blocked most of the water’s spray, she shivered and goose bumps broke out along the surface of her skin.

“I do mean it,” she insisted.

He shook his head. “Not like I do.”

His words had the desired effect of causing her to step back. “You don’t own the rights to desire, Fletcher. Maybe I haven’t always seen you . . . ” color crept into her cheeks and she gestured vaguely at him “ . . . like this. But people change. You certainly have.”

“I’m exactly the same.”

“You never got mad before.”

Yes, he did. He got angry all the time, but like the unsure boy he’d always been, the anger had been self-directed, coursing inward with so much strength it tied him up in knots, silenced his tongue, buried his longings. This was simply the first time he’d let it out.

And it felt good.

He let his gaze flick downward then, taking in the sight of Lexie standing cold, shivering, completely bare. She was everything and nothing like he’d imagined. She seemed so tiny compared to him, her small height augmented by the slender lines of the rest of her body. But everything he’d ever imagined about her had been composed of brief, stolen memories stored where they could do the least damage.

Now he was seeing all of her at once. The sweet swell of breasts lifting at each soft pink tip. The taper of her waist, which curved out to gently flaring hips. Those twin moles repeated on the side of her thigh. All of it was a sensory overload, and he wasn’t sure he was equipped to handle it.

One more imbalance between them. He couldn’t compete with this. There was nothing he could ever do or say or be that would equal even a tenth of her perfection. And it. Wasn’t. Fucking. Fair.

He grabbed Lexie’s wrist and pulled her into the spray with him. It was equal parts a need to touch her and a desire to pull her out of his line of vision. The tiny mewl of protest that escaped her lips only fed his sudden lapse into barbarism, and he continued holding her firm while he brought his lips to hers.

Although Fletcher didn’t have a ton of experience, he’d always been a patient lover, a soft lover. He enjoyed the quiet moments of intimacy shared after sex almost as much as the act itself, the way two people could feel connected and at ease, if only for a few minutes while pulses slowed and breath returned.

But there was nothing patient about this kiss. He didn’t wait for Lexie to soften toward him, or for her to part her lips in an invitation. He took what he wanted—and he wanted her.

His tongue swept inside her mouth, startling them both with the sudden need to possess. The urgency of the kiss, when combined with the water cascading down on them, made it almost feel as though he was drowning in her, that any breath they had left would be shared between them.

Lexie pulled away first, gasping for air. “Fletcher Patrick Owens!”

The sharpness of her tone as she invoked the use of his full name almost made him loosen his hold and fall into the natural apology that hung from his lips. But then he remembered that she had done this. She’d stood there watching as he stroked himself. She’d taken off her clothes. She’d gotten into the shower with him.

He used his free hand to grab her other wrist, holding them aloft above her head. This was one thing he’d never imagined before—that his towering height, normally such a curse, gave him a decided advantage in terms of controlling her movements.

Barbarism, a tiny, niggling voice insisted. This isn’t you. This is the beast.

The beast nodded its scraggly head.

“You think I could use a softer touch?” he asked, refusing to let her go. “Well, you’re wrong—you’re wrong about so many things. And if you want me to stop, you better say so right now. Because the second I kiss you again, there’s no telling . . . ”

“Kiss me again,” she interrupted, her breath still coming short and fast. Panting. She was panting. “Please, Fletcher. Kiss me like that again.”

As if there’s any other way.

Drowning wasn’t as much of a possibility this time, since he used his grip on both her wrists to pin her against the shower wall, out of the way of the cascade. She sucked in a sharp breath as her body hit the cool tiles, but he swallowed the sound with another long kiss.

He didn’t allow her to adjust the severity of the embrace, even as she wriggled and gasped against him. Using his knee, he nudged her legs apart and pushed her up against the wall even harder, so that she slid higher up until he was bracing all of her weight.

She was so light, so soft, so slippery and pliable that it was impossible to consider her weight a burden. And as her legs wrapped naturally around his hips, anchoring her body to his, he realized that he was about to take the love of his life up against a bathroom wall without a single regard for her comfort.

The beast roared its approval.

Fletcher’s erection hadn’t abated in the slightest. He dropped Lexie’s wrists, transferring his hold to her hips as he prepared to enter her. This was it—his chance to draw back, the one moment when he could maintain his admittedly loose grip on sanity. But the slick moisture between Lexie’s legs had nothing at all to do with the water and everything to do with him.

With a single, unyielding thrust, he was inside her. Lexie’s cry was loud enough to drop him to his knees, but he remained standing, waiting just a second for her body to adjust before lifting her hips and bringing her flush against him. Again. And again.

The agony of each angry stroke wrought by his own hands was nothing compared to this. Because this time, he was punishing Lexie as much as he was punishing himself. He was determined to break them both down, to make them feel the shame of losing so much control. And even though each movement wrested pleasure from his body, even though Lexie’s shattered scream filled the air, he begrudged every second of his euphoric release.

She slid through his hands and landed on wobbling legs. With a flick of his wrist, Fletcher turned the nozzle on the shower, and the silence that filled the room carried with it a thousand recriminations.

“Holy shit, Fletcher.”

There was that recrimination, too.

“I’m sorry.” He blew out a long breath as he helped her out of the tub. Once again, he resorted to averting his eyes and not gazing longingly at the curve of her back, where twin dimples led to her perfectly rounded bottom. Or he tried to, anyway. “That was . . . ”

Uncalled for? Irresponsible? Possibly the biggest mistake of his life? A man couldn’t erase an encounter like that no matter how hard he might try.

“I know,” was all she said.

Great. He’d reduced Lexie into a state of catatonic reticence. He never thought he’d see the day when she was at a loss for words.

He handed her a towel as he wrapped one around his lower half. They needed to have some sort of barrier—he refused to face her in the nude. Heck, if he could get away with it, he’d refuse to face her ever again.

Clearly, she didn’t share his chagrin, because she got on tiptoes and dropped a soft graze of a kiss on his cheek. “You said a hot shower first, then food second, right?” Without waiting for a reply—which was good, as it might be hours before he found the ability to form actual sentences in her presence—she added, “I’ll see what I can rustle up. Don’t climb out the bathroom window before we have a chance to talk, okay?”

He cast an anxious look at the window as she paused only long enough to gather up her clothes. Even if he could fit through that tiny square, which he seriously doubted, he was cold and wet and more exhausted than he’d been in a very long time. He’d have been much more likely to slink out the door when her back was turned.

He was really good at that.