Page 101 of The Contract

A sharp edge of protectiveness flares in my chest, and my mind races to the piece of shit that’s been a thorn in my side all weekend. If Adrian made her more upset than she let on. If he said something to her, threatened her.

I hear it again, and it breaks my resolve.

I can’t stand out here, walk away from her knowing she’s in distress. Not when I can do something about it.

She’s here because of me. Thrown into a weekend with a man who made her uncomfortable for me. Keeping her unease a secret to put my needs, the merger, our contract first.

I turn the knob slowly, pushing the door open with care.

“Elena?” My voice is low, just in case she is sleeping. Maybe crying out in her dreams.

Her bed is still made, a breeze coming in through the open door that leads to the terrace. The salty night air, damp from the raging storm, rushes around the room.

I take a step toward it, thinking she may be outside, but another sound comes from behind, and I turn around.

The door of her bathroom is ajar just enough that I can see her, and the sight freezes me.

Steam billows around the shower, fogging up the glass enclosure. But I can see enough.

Another gasp escapes her. It’s so quiet, yet it blares around me.

The blood is rushing through my body, going straight to my cock. My pulse hammering, my mind screaming at me to leave.

I shouldn’t be here, watching her, but fuck if I can’t look away.

Her body is moving, writhing and beautiful.

One hand is on her breast, and I can imagine her pinching the peaks of her nipples.

My mouth goes dry, wanting to suck that breast, nip at her while she cries out.

But it’s her other hand making me jealous, driving me to near madness.

She’s holding a shower wand. The spray of the nozzle is centered on her pussy, and fuck if she doesn’t look like a goddess.

The way she moves is hypnotic. Sensual, unguarded, fucking devastating.

Her body arches into the spray of water, head tipped back against the tile, droplets racing down her flushed skin. Her dark hair clings in damp waves over her shoulders, and fuck, I should turn away, should give her the privacy she deserves—but I can’t.

Not when she looks like this.

Her free hand leaves her breast, trailing over her stomach, sliding lower, her thighs parting just enough to give me a glimpse of where she’s touching herself. Slow, teasing strokes, drawing out the pleasure, building it. I can see the wayher muscles tighten, her breath catching as she moves the showerhead in tight little circles, sending the jet of water straight to her clit.

I swear, my fucking knees nearly buckle.

My fists tighten at my sides, my pulse hammering, my cock already painfully hard. Every sound she makes hits me like a wrecking ball—low, breathy gasps, the softest moan slipping past her lips as she tilts her hips, chasing the release she’s on the verge of falling into.

And then, my name.

Not a whisper. Not a passing thought. A plea. A fucking surrender.

The sound slams into my chest, steals the breath from my lungs. Need surges through me like a violent storm. The final thread of control holds on tight as the sight of her threatens to eviscerate it.

I want to be the one pulling those sounds from her. Want to replace that fucking showerhead with my fingers, my tongue, my cock. Want to slide inside her, stretch her open, make her beg like that for real.

For me.

The thought alone nearly undoes me, and I take a staggering step back, dragging in a ragged breath.

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