Page 32

Reality crashes through the fantasy.

I stop abruptly. Hand frozen mid-stroke. Breathing hard. Cock still achingly hard, throbbing and demanding I finish what I started.

But I can't.

What the fuck am I doing?

Paige is twenty feet away. Trusting me. Vulnerable. Escaping a man who hurt her. And here I am jerking off to fantasies about her body like she's some porn fantasy instead of a real person who deserves better.

This is exactly the kind of shit Cole probably did. Reduced her to an object for his pleasure. Took without asking. Assumed his desires mattered more than her humanity.

And I'm supposed to be different. Supposed to be better. Supposed to be the man who protects instead of takes.

I shove my hand away from my cock like it's burned me. Press both palms flat against the tile. Try to breathe through the desperate ache that's making my whole body shake.

The water is still scalding. Still beating against my shoulders. But the pleasure is gone. Replaced by crushing shame that tastes like copper on my tongue.

I'm not better. I'm just another man who can't control himself. Just another failure wrapped in good intentions.

Maybe the church was right about celibacy. Maybe without those vows, without that structure, I'm just proving I was never as disciplined as I thought. That underneath the collar, the prayers and the righteous purpose, I'm just as base as everyone else.

I turn the water cold. Let it shock my system. Let it hurt. Stand under the freezing spray until my erection finally subsides. Until the guilt feels slightly less suffocating. Until I can convince myself I'm still capable of being the man Paige needs.

The man who helps without expecting anything in return.

The man who protects without hidden motives.

The man who's different from everyone who's hurt her.

Even if right now, I don't feel different at all.

I shut off the water. Stand there dripping. Stare at the foggy mirror and barely recognize the man looking back at me.

Thirty-five years old. Ex-priest. Virgin. Prospect for a motorcycle club. Trying desperately to save someone while proving I might not be worth saving myself.

I dry off and pull on my sweatpants. Consider putting on a shirt and reject the idea, too obvious. Too much like I'm trying to hide something.

Take a breath. Then another. Force the shame down deep where it can't show on my face.

Open the bathroom door. Steam billows out around me. Paige is sitting on the edge of the bed looking clean, soft and impossibly beautiful in my clothes.

And I have to pretend I wasn't just touching myself while thinking about her. Have to act normal. Have to be the man she thinks I am instead of the one I actually am.

"Feel better?" she asks.

"Much better." I hang the towel on the doorknob. Run a hand through my wet hair. "Thanks for letting me clean up."

My voice sounds normal. Thank god for that.

She nods, and we settle into our respective sides of the bed. The pillow wall between us feels like both protection and mockery.

I settle onto my side of the bed, the pillow wall a flimsy barrier between us. My heart is still racing from what almost happened in the shower. From what I stopped myself from finishing.

"You okay with me being shirtless?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. "I can put something on if—"

"No." She turns to face me, propping herself up on one elbow. The lamplight catches in her damp hair, makes her gray eyes luminous. "I don't mind."

She's looking at me. Her gaze travels from my face down to my chest, my stomach, then back up again.