Page 67 of Ex Marks the Spot

Then again, I could save my pride (and my shot at a million dollars) by taking matters into my own hands in the shower.

But first, laundry.

Court’s already plugged the sink, so I flip the faucet handle, add the rest of my clothes to the pile, and reach for the packet of soap.

That isn’t on the counter.

Or in my toiletry bag.

Or anywhere else in the bathroom.

Which means if the dirty laundry walk of shame isn’t already a thing, it’s about to be.

The plan was simple: wrap myself in a towel (yes, I’m aware of the irony) and make a mad dash to my backpack for the soap.

Except.

EXCEPT.

I get two steps into the room and discover my sex dream has started without me. More specifically, I find Court on his bed, eyes closed and towel undone, working himself in long, steady strokes.

None of my Xtreme Quest research covered what to do when you walk in on your ex-boyfriend jerking off. Logic says I should leave. Turn around and announce myself. Anything other than standing here like a horny voyeur, butinstead I remain transfixed on the glorious sight in front of me. It’s like the universe heard my thoughts in the bathroom and decided I could have my protein bar and eat it too.

Court grips the base of his shaft with his right hand while his left slides up to the head, twisting and squeezing in a way I can somehow feel between my thighs even though I’m still across the room.

As he increases the pace, his breathing becomes louder and more pronounced. I can feel that too, just below my ear where my skin prickles with a lethal combination of memory and need.

“Yes, baby. Just like that,” he whispers.

His hand moves faster, and his hips thrust upward, triggering a fiery ache in my center that begs for release.

“Fuck, Hartley.”

That is a fantastic idea.

Also,he said my name. Does that technically count as an invitation? Because I will RSVP to him so hard. And he is so. Very. Hard. I press my legs together and imagine it’s my hand wrapped around him, coaxing the low, raspy growl from his lips. That it’s my mouth causing the muscles in his thighs to flex and quake. That it’s my body seated on top of him, bringing us closer and closer to the edge.

I’m so lost in my fantasy that it takes a few seconds to realize Court’s staring at me. Rather than cover up or tell me to get the hell out of the room, he holds my gaze and resumes touching himself.

“I, uh...forgot...the thing.” I wave a finger in the direction of my backpack. “The soap. For our clothes. I didn’t mean to...” I stop there, because we both know whatever I say next would be a lie. I absolutely meant to, and I enjoyed every long, thick second of it.

His fist moves from base to tip and back down again, and I feel myself take a step in his direction. Then another. And another.

“Don’t do something you’re going to regret.” His words are a warning, but his voice is all gravel and desire, and right now the only thing I’ll regret is not taking off my towel and climbing on top of him.

So I do.

His gaze burns with arousal as I lower myself onto his upper thighs, achingly close to his cock. His hand stills, as if any movement while we’re this close will destroy the final vestiges of his restraint.

“Last chance,” he grits out, proving my point.

I lean forward, rocking against him, and splay my hands on his chest. “I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

He nods.

“I admire and appreciate your respect for my consent, but if you don’t fuck me in the next ten seconds, I’m going to die and you’ll have to finish this race alone.”

He shifts beneath me, an inch, maybe two, but the friction is enough to ignite the ache of desire between my legs. “We can’t have that, can we?”