Page 37 of False Catch

"You're trouble," he says.

"You have no idea."

"I'm starting to get one." He reaches over, thumb wiping at the corner of my mouth. "Missed a spot."

He licks his thumb clean, maintaining eye contact, and I have to press my thighs together.

"I should go to bed," I say when he follows me to take our dishes to the sink. "Practice in four hours."

"Probably smart." But he crowds me against the counter one more time, caging me in from behind with his arms. "For the record? This wasn't just stress relief. Not for me."

"No?"

"No." He leans in close, lips brushing my ear. "I wanted to know what you taste like since day one. Ever since that day on the bus, I’ve wanted another taste. And another. I’m not going to get enough. Fair warning."

He steps back, letting me escape, but the promise in his eyes follows me.

As I pass Jackson's door, I hear movement inside, then Eli's low voice. They definitely heard everything. The thought makes me shiver and leaves a tight feeling low in my stomach. Whatever that feeling is, I don’t think it’s embarrassment.

Tomorrow we face our new reality with Coach Torres watching our every move. Tomorrow I have to pretend Zane didn't just make me come harder with just his mouth and hands than I thought was possible. Or that I don't know what he looks and sounds like when he comes.

But tonight, I can still taste him, still feel the phantom pressure of his fingers, and I'm already thinking about when I can have it again.

CHAPTER TEN

Cameron

I didn't sleep.

Not after listening to Reese and Zane in the kitchen at 2:30 AM. Not after hearing every gasp, every moan, every wet sound that painted too clear a picture of what was happening one floor below.

I'd tried to ignore it at first. Pulled a pillow over my head. Counted backwards from one thousand. Recited poetry in my head - Neruda, Bukowski, anyone dark enough to kill an erection.

But then I'd heard her say Zane's name, breathless and desperate, and my hand was in my boxers before I could stop myself.

I came embarrassingly fast, biting my fist to stay silent while she cried out downstairs. Then lay there in the dark, cum cooling on my stomach, hating myself for it.

The shame sits heavy in my chest now, mixed with something else. Curiosity. Want. The memory of her voice breaking on Zane's name.

I've watched her since she joined the team. How could I not? She commands attention without trying, this tiny force of nature who makes eight Alphas bend to her will with just her voice. But it's more than that. It's the way she never backs down from Gray's challenges. The way she sees through Beckett's charm. The way she treats Jackson's silence as valid communication rather than something to fix.

She sees us. Really sees us. And that's... dangerous.

Now it's 5:45 AM and I'm at the boathouse early, trying to outrun the shame and the lingering arousal that won't quite fade. The lake is shrouded in mist, the air thick with humidity that promises another hot day.

I sit on the dock, feet dangling over the edge, watching the water. This is where I make sense of things. The patterns in the current, the way morning light fractures on the surface. Water doesn't lie. Doesn't pretend. It just is.

Unlike people. Unlike me, sitting here pretending I didn't get off to my teammate and our coxswain. Pretending I don't want to know what she tastes like, what sounds she'd make for me.

Maybe that's why I've always rowed bow seat so well - the isolation suits me. One man alone at the front of the boat, setting the rhythm for starts but otherwise following the pack. It's safe back there. Clean. No eye contact with the coxswain, no pressure to be the stroke's mirror. Just technique and water and the comfortable distance I've perfected.

But distance has costs. In bow seat, you miss things. Subtle cues between teammates. The way chemistry builds or fractures. You're part of the boat but separate from its heart.

Coach Torres arrives at 5:50, parking her sedan with military precision. She gets out with economical movements - every gesture purposeful, calculated. Former Navy, I'd guess. Maybe Marines. She has that look, like she's cataloging exits and calculating threats even while checking her clipboard. Younger than I expected - maybe early thirties - with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that miss nothing.

"Blake," she says as I approach. "Cameron, right? Bow seat?"

I nod.