Alora finally emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in her fluffy pink robe, steam curling out behind her like she’d just stepped from a cloud.

“I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen,” she called, but I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I darted past her, clutching my towel, and slammed the door shut behind me.

The lock clicked. Silence.

I breathed out as though I was holding onto the very sir because of her.

Maybe I was.

I leaned against the bathroom counter, my reflection fogging in the mirror. I should’ve showered. I should’ve been scrubbing rainwater and humiliation off my skin. But instead, his voice kept replaying in my head.

It’s nice to see you, Miss Nightingale.

The weight he’d put on see. The way his eyes had cut through me, like he’d caught the dirtiest part of my thoughts before I’d even had them.

And God, I had them now.

If my thoughts were to be translated in pictures, like Pornhubs channels.

I didn’t even bother turning on the shower at first. My towel dropped to the floor, and I slid down onto the cool tiles, my breath already ragged. My thighs clenched, slickness already spreading where I ached most.

My hand trembled as I slid it down my stomach. The first brush of my fingers against my swollen clit made me whimper. Too loud. I shot upright, fumbling to turn on the shower. Water thundered into the tub, masking my moans.

I pressed my back against the cold tile, biting my lip as I pushed two fingers inside. The stretch had me gasping. I pumped slow at first, my other hand working desperate circles around my clit.

All I could see was him.

The way he’d smirked in the parking lot when I said I was wet. That accent, dark and heavy, dripping off every word. The cut of his jaw when he looked away like nothing mattered, like he was untouchable.

My hips jerked against my hand, my slick coating my fingers, dripping down my thighs. I imagined it wasn’t my fingers—imagined his hands, his mouth, his weight pressing me into the mattress, into the wall, into anything.

“Rayan,” I gasped into the spray, my voice swallowed by the water.

I slid another finger inside, curling, hitting that spot that made my vision blur. My palm was slippery, my body twisting, desperate.

What would he sound like above me? Would his voice break the same way mine did now? Would he murmur in that accent while he fucked me senseless?

I cried out, clapping a wet hand over my mouth. My knees shook, my back arching. I rode my fingers harder, faster, chasing it, drowning in it.

And then it hit.

A rush tore through me, shaking every nerve. My toes curled, my body jerking against the tile as I came, my scream muffled by the roar of water. My fingers kept moving, milking every last pulse until I collapsed, trembling, sweat mixing with shower spray.

I lay there a moment, panting, my heart trying to escape my chest.

Then the shame.

I dragged myself up, finally forcing soap and water over my body like it could erase what I’d just done. But it couldn’t erase the truth: I’d just spent thirty minutes fucking myself to the thought of Alora’s stepbrother. In her bathroom. While she was in the next room.

By the time I wrapped a fresh towel around myself and slipped into Alora’s clothes, my legs still felt weak.

Downstairs, they were already at the table.

Alora waved a fork at me. “Finally. I thought you drowned.”

Rayan didn’t even glance up. He was bent over a sleek silver laptop, the kind I’d only seen in display cases at the mall. His fingers moved quick over the keyboard, his focus absolute. Rich and untouchable. He didn’t notice me. Or maybe he did and chose not to.

“Eat something before you go,” Alora insisted, stabbing a piece of roasted chicken and pushing it toward me.

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Don’t argue. You’ll faint if you skip dinner.”

I sat, but the food felt like a dare. My body was still humming with the aftershocks of what I’d done upstairs. Sitting across from him now made me hyper-aware, like my skin was broadcasting every filthy thought I’d had.

I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t even lift my fork.

And he… he didn’t look at me once. Not a flicker. Just his laptop, his long fingers, his unreadable face.

Maybe that should’ve made it easier. But it didn’t. It made me restless, frustrated, like I’d been invisible the whole time.

The front door opened.

“Mom!” Alora jumped up, kissing her mother’s cheek as she came in with two shopping bags.

“Good evening, Mrs. Salim,” I greeted quickly.

She smiled at me, warm and kind, the way she always was. Honestly, she was one of my favorite people. She made this house feel less like a palace and more like home.

“What a storm out there,” she sighed, setting down the bags. “You must be frozen, darling. Did you get changed?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you.”

Alora was already telling her why I’d come, waving her hands in the air as if I’d been stranded on some epic adventure rather than just in a broken-down car.

Her mom laughed, pulled out a pack of biscuits from one bag, and offered it to me. “Take some for the road.”

I smiled politely. “Thank you, but I should really head home. I have plans tonight.”

And then she said it. The words that froze me in place.

“Rayan, could you please drop her home for me? I can’t have her walking in this cold after being drenched earlier.”

The air shifted. I turned slowly.

He was already looking at me, unreadable as ever. My stomach twisted so hard it hurt.

He closed the laptop with a soft click.

“With pleasure, Mother.”

The way he said it—calm, formal, like he was agreeing to something heavier than just a ride—shot heat straight to my core.

Fuck.

I was in trouble.