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Hard dick.

What was it that she said? She wouldn’t blow me off unless I asked nicely? For the love of God, I would probably get down on my knees and beg for that from her. Shit, I’d make good use of my time down there, too, tasting her, listening to the little noises of pleasure she’d make.

She’s always—almost always—dressed in those stupid coveralls for one job or the other. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually seen her legs and never from that proximity.

And what was that with telling me she was about to get in the shower? The rest of that stilted conversation was had while picturing her naked and wet. I could barely form a complete sentence, let alone thought. I’d happily hold her up against the wall and show her just how sweet I can be.

Fuck it. I bring my phone to life again, and her contact is right there. Calling her would border on preoccupation. Showing up and finding her, true to her word, in the shower, or—God help me—wrapped in a towel that only just barely covers her curves would be fully stalker behavior. Regardless, it can’t happen.

Not now.

Maybe never.

But if I’m dancing on that line, entertaining thoughts of showing up at her house and worshipping her, I might as well see what it looks like on the other side. Just visit it. Slide my toe over it and take a peek at what the stalker life has to offer.

Me: Send me a picture. Proof of life.

I wait for her response and sip my whiskey.

And I wait.

And I wait and wait.

And wait.

Both the glass and phone drop to the vanity countertop in a clatter. If I stand here any longer, staring at that screen, I’ll go crazy. Hell, she’s probably still in the shower and hasn’t even seen my message. My request.

I stalk out of the bathroom and into my closet to strip down so I can take my own shower and wash this day off of me. I throw my clothes in the hamper, my trousers into the dry-cleaning bag, and I grab a pair of lounge pants.

Nothing like going through the motions and wasting all kinds of time to avoid obsessively checking my phone. And when I do, there’s nothing.

No picture.

No response.

How long does it take her to shower? Even if she washed each and every delectable curve with half the attention I would pay them, it shouldn’t take this long. Unless she has someone there with her. Washing those curves. Kneeling on her shower floor. Pinning her to the tile wall and… Fuck. Shit. Dammit.

That thought bothers me more than it should. I step under the spray, and the water is way too hot. When I adjust the temperature, it’s immediately frigid. My skin prickles, tight and uncomfortable, and all I want to do is clean up and get out. Fuck this day right in the ass, no lube.

I scrub my hair and rinse it, ignoring the inevitable tangles, and shut things down as the last bubbles are still sliding down my legs. As I do the half-assed drying job, my phone buzzes with an incoming message. It could be the nanny giving me an ETA. It could be million other people—okay, it could be one of maybe five people. Four… whatever.

But it’s the message I’m waiting on.

I run my towel over my head in a sad attempt to stop water from dripping into my eyes and thumb the notification.

The picture… that fucking picture.

Toned, luscious legs dripping with water and bubbles. Feet propped on the rolled edge of a clawfoot tub. Toes painted the deepest darkest color. Purple, maybe? Though it could be black.

I don’t know.

I don’t fucking care, because with as little as this picture shows, it’s enough.

Enough to have me sweating after my arctic shower.

Enough to have my blood flowing south.

Enough to have my dick getting stiff all over again.