Page 22 of The Rebound Plan

“That’s right.” Russ rolls his big shoulders, pulling his sweat-damp t-shirt across his chest. “That’s your husband’s doing,” he adds, his gaze finding and holding on my face.

“Oh no,” I laugh. “How’s that?”

“I said I wasn’t in a rush to a buy a boat, maybe next year, and he immediately got on his phone and put feelers out there. Turns out, someone he knows up here has a boat and some jet skis he wouldn’t mind unloading.”

Emery leans in close to Russ, nestling under his arm like a possessive little kitten.Mine, her body language screams.

The ache in my chest intensifies, jealousy deepening. What would it be like to have that kind of touchy-feely relationship with my husband?

After they go inside, I head in as well, heading up to my own room. I can hear Max in the shower, so I knock to let him know that I’m here.

“Is that you, hun?” he calls out.

“Yep.”

The shower turns off.

So much for my brief consideration of maybe joining him.

He opens the door, a towel slung low around his narrow hips.

I untie my bikini top, wanting him to see my tits, and I get the appreciative look. It’s a little salve on that weird hurt in my chest.

“I should shower.” I twirl the bikini top around on my finger, then hook my thumb under the strap on my bottoms. “You want to hop back in with me?”

“Can’t. We’re gonna go get Rusty a boat.”

“He said that, but I think they’re in the shower, too…”

He frowns. “Him and Emery? They told you that? That’s fucking slutty, isn’t it?”

I flush. Damn it. “It was just alluded to. Anyway, I’ll shower real quick and then I think we’re all going.”

“Cool. I gotta call my agent back, anyway.” He lingers a last look on my tits, which isn’t quite as good as him coming into the shower with me and putting his hands and mouth on them, but it still feels nice, albeit in an unsatisfying way that leaves a subtle fever under my skin as I step into the shower.

I turn on the water, which is still hot from Max being in here. It comes out of the rain head above, a nice wide drenching that rinses me off, but doesn’t do anything about the ache below the surface.

The shower has both a rain head and a detachable wand, which I eye, my pulse jacking up. Could I get myself off quickly with it?

There’s only one way to tell.

My relationship to orgasms is funny. Sometimes I can’t come at all. Sometimes it takes me a while. And sometimes, under the right circumstances like being alone and my brain scratching at the right weird itch, I can very efficiently find a little dopamine hit.

The most important part is to not think about it too hard.

I grab the wand, brace my hand against the tile, and close my eyes. I think of sweat and bodies being pushed to the limit. I imagine low, private dirty talk. Filthy claims on every part of my body. A desperate, pleading protest rises inside me,nooooo, and that feels so good. Trapped in this shower. No way out. Warm bodies, strong arms. Muffled grunts and a hand over my mouth just in time as I choke out a body-wracking release, the shower head tumbling out of my fingers.

The dopamine rush makes me sag against the tiles, tingling through my extremities and making my brain feel a hell of a lot better.

I finish up efficiently, then brace myself for the afternoon ahead.

CHAPTER 8

RUSS

There’s nothing quite like lying to undercut what should be a triumphant weekend of feeling like a king. This fake dating bullshit isn’t for me, and we’re only two hours into it.

It’s not Emery’s fault. She’s amazing. And I know I should be grateful I have someone beside me this weekend who is firmly in my corner, who comes by being Team Russ naturally, but without the weight of actually trying to date.

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