The Wrong Kind of Love

After heading downstairs, I pour myself a couple of fingers of bourbon and head to my bedroom with it. I settle into my recliner in the alcove and try not to think about the fact that Nic is naked on the other side of my bathroom door.

I fail.

In fact, that’s all I can think about. Nic naked and wet and . . . thinking about me.

I close my eyes and let myself imagine going in there, seeing her in the water. She’d hold my gaze as I strip, her eyes as hot and greedy on me as they were that first night. I palm my dick through my pants as I imagine climbing in the tub with her. I’d sit behind her and pull her between my legs so I could cup her breasts and toy with her sensitive nipples. I apply more pressure to my cock as I imagine the sounds she’d make, imagine her tight ass grinding against my dick as she writhes in pleasure. I’d kiss her neck and put a hand between her legs to give her the release she craves. She’d be slick and tight, and when I slid a finger into her, she’d beg me for more.

My breathing is shallow now, and the pressure of my palm through my pants isn’t enough. I eye the door. Still closed. The jets are still running. “Fuck.” I’m too turned on thinking about Nic to stop and exercise good judgment, so I pull my cock from my pants and take it in my fist in long, hard strokes.

The fantasy changes. Instead of being in the tub with her, I’m right here in this chair. She walks out of the bathroom—nude and wet and heading straight to me. She drops in front of me and gets on her knees. When I imagine her perfect lips sliding over the head of my cock, I come hard all over my hand, squeezing and pumping as I imagine her mouth still on me.

Seconds later, my fantasy is snatched away when the message alert on my phone beeps and brings me to my senses. Shit.

I’m sitting outside the bathroom jacking off to the image of the woman inside. I’m not sure if this is a new low or a sign that Nic and I need to do something about our unfinished business as soon as possible.

I grab some tissues from the bedside table and clean myself up, still listening for the jets to turn off or the tub to drain so I’ll know if she’s coming. The door remains closed while I clean up, and when I pour myself another drink.

I haven’t heard a sound from the bathroom since I came in here. I can hear the whirring jets, but nothing else. No splashing water. No music to entertain her. Just . . . silence.

I don’t trust myself not to get lost in another fantasy. Jacking off like a creep once in a night is enough for me, so I try to distract myself by grabbing my phone. The text message is from Brayden, letting me know he emailed details about a new distribution deal. My mind is in no place for business, so I put a pin in that and scroll through email. But this time it’s not a fantasy that has me distracted. I’m worried. I can’t stop thinking about Nic and the lack of noise coming from the bathroom.

With a sigh, I drain my bourbon and rise from my chair to go to the bathroom door. I hesitate before knocking, not sure exactly what to say. The most appropriate thing would be: “Hey, I’m a little neurotic after finding my wife dead in my living room, and my imagination runs away with me. Tell me you’re still breathing, and I’ll leave you alone.”

I knock on the door. “Nic, did you find everything you needed in there?”

She doesn’t answer. Fuck.

I look at the ceiling and close my eyes, trying to muster patience I don’t feel. Then I rap on the door again. “Nic? Are you okay?”

No answer. Shit.

I try the handle. It’s unlocked. I crack open the door. “Nic?” I say softly. After giving her hell on day one for being in my private space, it would be dickish for me to invade hers right now. But when she still doesn’t answer, I’m too worried to give a shit about privacy, and I burst into the bathroom.

She’s in the tub, the jets whirring, headphones covering her ears. Obviously, she couldn’t hear me. Obviously, she still can’t. But that’s not what has me frozen in my tracks.

I can’t take my eyes off where her hands are. One between her thighs. One cupping her breast and toying with her nipple. Those soft thighs. Those fucking perfect breasts.

She’s stroking herself between her legs, her fingers dancing over her clit. Her eyes are closed. Her neck is arched. Her lips are parted. And my cock is so damn hard it aches. I fist my hands at my sides, because fuck, I want to touch her more than I want anything else.