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Things really, truly have been going so well up until this point. I’m actually loving my new place, despite the unexpected roommate situation. It’s huge, comfortable, and I’ve been able to add all the touches of decor and familiarity like I wanted to in my old place.
My roommate himself is pretty great, too. For the most part. I mean, I’d have to be out of my mind to not appreciate the eye candy every morning at breakfast. And he’s been respectful, sleeping on the couch so I can have the bed.
I don’t know why, to be honest. The penthouse is plenty big and I’m pretty sure there’s another room he could have put me in. But the one time I tried to ask him about it, Pasha just said that it made more sense to give me the biggest room with an adjoined bathroom so I could get to what I need faster.
He’s been so nice that it seems like massively overstepping to burden him with my sudden car troubles. It’s not that he’s ever made me feel like I’m too needy or clingy or a nuisance, but he’s already done so much to make sure I have everything.
And I mean, everything.
He even hid his guns. Which—and I don’t know much about his world—seems like kind of a big deal.
I try the ignition one more time. Just one more, please. Let this be the one that works.
Dammit. My good luck has run out.
Assuming I ever had any to begin with.
I sigh and yank my keys out of the ignition, then just slump back in my seat. I’d wanted to leave early so I could grab a box of donuts for Hazel and myself to enjoy later, so it’s not like I’m in a huge time crunch. I’m just out of energy to deal with this shit.
Pregnancy zaps my battery before I even get to use it.
I groan and heave myself out of the car. How much harder will it be when I’m fifty times bigger? I’m already noticing my stomach is touching my upper thighs at times, and I can’t bend forward as deeply as usual.
Sighing, I get out and ride the elevator back up to the penthouse. I shuffle back inside, fully planning on kicking my feet up while I wait for a rideshare. It’s too cold outside to wait by the car.
I rummage through my sweater pocket for a hair tie, but can’t find one. There’s none in my bag, either. I know I have some in the bathroom, so I check the time and decide I have plenty of it to go hunt down a decent ponytail.
Halfway there, I pause. Pasha’s still here? The shower in the master bathroom is running.
I’ll be fast. He won’t even notice I slipped in.
The door doesn’t make a sound when I crack it open. Steam bathes me in warmth, and it takes a second to blink through the haze. I spot my small bundle of hair ties on the counter by my brush and slip through the door just to reach it.
Pasha moans.
What the…?
I shouldn’t look up. I shouldn’t look over at the glass shower door, which doesn’t exactly obscure views of whoever is inside. The glass ripples just enough to warp the image, but it’s easy to see Pasha standing under the heavy stream of water, leaning on one hand braced against the wall.
The other hand is?—
Oh.
Oh… my.
I really can’t see anything clearly. But I don’t have to in order to know exactly what his other hand is doing between his legs. Judging by the way his arm is moving, he’s managing one hell of a downstairs situation.
I should go. I should retreat.
I just… can’t seem to look away.
I mean, my God. His backside alone is… how would he put it? “A work of art.” All rippling muscle and glistening skin and?—
“Daphne.”
Shit. He knows. He saw me and he knows I’m here and watching like the world’s biggest creep and I’m about to croak a response… when I see him tilt his head back and gasp.
“Fuck, Daphne…”
