Page 42 of Faking the Shot
And the worst part? I don’t hate it.
I stalk down the hall to my room, each step heavier than the last. My skin feels too tight, my pulse pounding in my ears. Fuck, I need to get a grip.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it for a moment, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The air in here feels cooler, but it does nothing to calm the heat surging through me.
I strip off my shirt, tossing it onto the chair in the corner. My jeans follow, hitting the floor with a dull thud, and I kick them aside. Standing there in just my boxers, I glance toward the bed—my bed—and for a split second, my mind betrays me. I picture Valentina stretched out across it, her dark hair spilling over the pillows, wearing nothing but the shirt I just gave her.
My cock twitches, and I let out a low groan, palming myself through the fabric. “Fuck,” I mutter, pushing away from the door and heading for the bathroom.
The marble tiles are cool under my feet as I step inside and turn on the shower, the sound of water filling the room. Steam rises quickly, fogging the glass, and I strip off the last of my clothes, stepping under the spray before I can second-guess myself.
The hot water hits my skin, and I tilt my head back, letting it cascade over me. It feels good—cleansing, almost—but it doesn’t do a damn thing to erase the images flashing through my mind.
Her lips, parted and inviting. Her soft moan when I kissed her earlier, like she couldn’t help herself. The way she looked at me when she asked for my clothes, so innocent and unknowing, while my brain was already conjuring every filthy scenario imaginable.
I press my palms against the tiled wall, letting the water beat down on my shoulders. My breath comes harder, the tension coiling low in my stomach, tight and insistent. It’s maddening, this need for her—this ache that refuses to let up no matter how much I try to shake it.
I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. I see her, feel her. The soft curve of her body under my hands, the sound of her breath hitching as I trail my mouth down her neck, over her collarbone, lower. Her legs trembling as I spread her thighs and taste her, slow and deliberate, drawing out every sound, every shiver.
A curse slips from my lips, rough and broken. My hand drags through my wet hair, and I push away from the wall, letting the water wash over me.
This is going to be hell. Having her here, so close but just out of reach—it’s torture.
But as much as I want her, as much as my body screams for her, I know I can’t cross that line. Not yet. Not unless she tells me she wants it too.
And fuck, I hope she does.
The water streams down my back, scalding and relentless, but it’s nothing compared to the heat rolling through me. I press my palms harder into the tiles, as if grounding myself will make the ache go away. But it doesn’t. It just builds.
My head drops forward, and a ragged breath escapes me. My cock is hard, throbbing, and there’s no way I can ignore it any longer. I glance down, the water pooling over my abs and dripping onto the tiled floor.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my voice low and rough.
My hand moves almost on its own, wrapping around myself, firm and slow. The relief is immediate, but it’s not enough. Not when my brain is replaying every single thing about Valentina.
Her lips, plush and pink, parting as she leaned up to kiss me in front of the paparazzi. The soft gasp she made when I pulled her closer. Her hands gripping my shoulders like she didn’t want to let go.
I stroke myself, my grip tightening as the image sharpens. She’s in my shirt, the fabric barely covering her ass, her legs bare and inviting. I picture her walking toward me, her hips swaying just enough to drive me insane. The look in her eyes—uncertain but curious—like she’s daring herself to come closer.
A groan tears from my throat, raw and guttural. My hand moves faster now, my breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts.
I imagine her kneeling in front of me, her soft hands replacing mine. Her mouth, warm and wet, taking me in inch by inch. I can almost hear her moan around me, see the way her lashes would flutter as she looks up, her gaze locking with mine.
“Valentina,” I growl, my head tipping back as the pleasure builds, white-hot and consuming.
I picture her spread out on my bed, her back arching as I pin her wrists above her head, kissing her until she can’t think straight. The way her body would respond to mine, the way she’dgasp my name when I slide into her—fuck, I’d bury myself so deep she’d forget anyone else ever existed.
The pressure coils tight, so tight it’s almost unbearable. My hand moves faster, my strokes rough and desperate.
She’s mine. In that moment, in my head, she’s fucking mine.
My release hits hard, my entire body tensing as I groan her name again, low and hoarse. The water washes everything away, but the tension in my chest remains.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile, catching my breath. The water beats down on me, but my mind is still full of her—her laugh, her smile, her fucking scent that’s already taken over my house.
I know I shouldn’t want her like this. But I do.
And that scares the shit out of me.
