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Rafe: Barely. But if I may say so, he deserved it

Marius: That’s what you always say. Speaking of missing family members, where the hell is Ciaran?

Lucan: Pool

Marius: At this hour?

Rafe: That’s suspicious

Lucan: Extremely

Letting out a long sigh, I scrub the towel through my hair and glance down at the screen again before typing a reply.

Me: I’m on my way back, you fuckers

My mouth twitches despite myself. Idiots. Ignoring whatever nonsense is about to follow, I tap out of the group chat and open a different conversation instead.

i liked the way your freckles lit up when I touched you

8

ROWAN

After the disaster at the pool, I spend the next day practicing the Noctis for hours, forcing Halvern's voice into my head.

Strike, pull, strike, feel.

But it doesn't work. Nothing works. He's here. Ciaran Virel.

His half-naked body dripping wet, his rippling muscles carved in swirling ink. Black hair plastered to his gorgeous face, those long dark lashes lowering over rich brown eyes before he looks at me again like he already knows exactly what he's doing. The sharp line of his jaw. That straight, proud nose.

And that mouth.

I shudder at the thought of those lips brushing my ear, skidding down to my throat, to the corner of my mouth. Hot water runs down the back of my head and over my shoulders, and I dip my chin with a groan. My hand's already on my dick.

I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But the shower feels like the only place where I can let go of this pent-up energy.

I'm desperate with the thought of Ciaran. With his voice, his touch. I can still feel the ghost of his lips on my throat, the heat of it making my skin feel too tight.

My hand moves down, my fingers slick with soap and the first thick traces of precum. I wrap my palm around the length of my cock and groan, the sound dimmed in the roar of the spray.

It's humiliating. The way I'm standing here, shaking, getting off to the memory of a man who knows exactly what he's doing to me.

And it's not even only his touch. It's the way my body went still when he wanted it to. The way those long, deft fingers closed around my throat that first night and somehow made the world stop spinning long enough for me to breathe again.

Rocking my hips into my fist, I squeeze my eyes shut.

You were staring. The words echo through my head in his voice. Caught you.

Heat floods my face.

I can practically hear him saying it again, looking down at me with that infuriating amusement like he already knows exactly how badly he's gotten to me.

I hiss as the friction catches, my grip tightening. He seems to thrive on getting under my skin, and I hate that some part of me wants him to keep going.

I drop my free hand lower, fumbling through the hot water. I must be losing my mind. I have too much to lose, and still here I am under the water, toes curling against the tiles, thinking about him anyway.

I'm pathetic; I know that. But I can't seem to stop, my breath coming in jagged bursts. I think of the messages on my multi-slate, the ones I haven't answered but have read a hundred times until the words feel burned into my brain.