Page 63 of Blades Out
But I could still feel her. The ghost of her skin beneath my fingertips. The quiet hitch of her breath. The way she'd frozen when I'd touched her—not in fear, but in something softer. Something that made my chest ache.
I scrubbed a hand over my face. Water cascaded through my fingers, blurring vision I didn't trust, anyway.
Wash yourself clean.
But the cold couldn't touch what lived under my skin. Couldn't freeze out the want. Couldn't numb the guilt twisting through my ribs like barbed wire.
I stayed there until my hands shook. Until my breathing evened out into something that almost felt controlled. Until I stopped hoping the water would make me forget.
It didn't. It never would.
The cold should’ve killed it. Should’ve frozen the heat out of my veins, the want out of my bones. Should’ve made me numb enough to forget the way her breath hitched when I touched her.
It didn’t.
My hand slid down my stomach before I could stop it. Fingers wrapping around my cock, gripping hard enough to hurt. A punishment. A test.
Don’t think of her.
The water pounded against my shoulders, icy needles driving into my skin. My breath came sharp, ragged. I stroked once—twice—hating myself for it.
Don’t do this.
Her face flashed behind my eyes. Wide, startled, soft. The way she’d looked up at me in the parking lot, like she trusted me. Like I was something good.
My grip tightened.
You’re supposed to protect her, not want her.
I groaned, low and rough, the sound swallowed by the rush of water. My thumb pressed against the head, imagining her lips there instead. Her hands. The way she’d tremble if I pushed her against the wall and took what I wanted.
The thought made me sick. Made me harder. I worked myself faster, angry now. Not pleasure—release. Something to burn the tension out of my muscles, the guilt out of my chest. My free hand slammed against the tile, bracing myself as my hips jerked forward.
She’d be soft. Warm. Would make those quiet little sounds when I touched her, the ones that would wreck me completely.
I came with a broken noise, my forehead pressed against the cold wall. The orgasm hit like a blade—sharp, brutal, leaving me hollowed out. My breath came in harsh bursts, my fingers still clenched around myself like I could strangle the want out of my body.
The water ran red-hot now, steam curling around me. I didn’t remember turning the knob.
I didn’t care.
I stood there, trembling, as the guilt settled back in. Heavy. Suffocating.
I’d just used her to get myself off. And I’d do it again.
I sat on the shower floor, spine pressed against cold tile, water beating down on my shoulders. Breathing uneven. Ragged.
The release hadn't helped. If anything, it made everything worse.
Shame hit in a wave—hot, suffocating, crawling under my skin like something alive. My chest tightened. Throat closed. I dragged a hand over my face, fingers shaking.
You're pathetic.
The words echoed in my skull, vicious and true.
I'd stood in a parking lot and touched her face like I had any right. Like crossing that line wouldn't shatter whatever fragile trust she'd started to build. And then I'd come home and jerked off to the memory of her soft skin and startled eyes. Used her. Without permission. Without her even knowing.
My stomach turned. I hated that my mind went to her. Hated that I couldn't think of anyone else. Hated that when I'd tried—when I'd deliberately forced myself to picture someone safer, older, someone who wouldn't make me feel like a predator—my body had gone cold and unresponsive.
