WHEN I RETURN TO THE KITCHEN AFTER HELPING CLYDE GET settled, Bash is nowhere to be seen. The remnants of our poker game are scattered all over the table, my ss of wine sits innocently next to the pot ofvender.

    Hands on my hips, I take a deep breath, head just a little fuzzy, skin just a little hot, heart still beating fast. Because I’m pretty sure I was about to blow Bash in the kitchen.

    A smile quirks my lips. Fucking Clyde. Total cockblocker.

    I quickly dump my wine, deciding I’ve had about enough of that for one night, and tidy the table while perseverating on the things that Bash said to me in the heat of whatever the hell that moment just was.

    You that fucking eager, Gwen?

    I’ve got aundry list of ways I’d like to watch you work for it, and none of them involve poker.

    I really should not want you this badly.

    By the time the kitchen is tidy, I’m hot and bothered.

    Deciding I have a date with my vibrator upstairs, I shut off the majority of the lights, check the locks on the doors, and head up to my dreamy room.

    I pad softly down the hall, not wanting to make any noise. My gaze drifts to Bash’s door as I pass it, half expecting to see light filtering from beneath it. But I don’t.

    He’s clearly not waiting up for me, but that was probably very wishful thinking. I shake my head at myself as I continue to my room. The man might want me, but he definitely hates that he wants me. I’m not oblivious to the fact that he’s torn up about it.

    And still I wonder if he dreams about breaking the rules the way that I do. He’s locked up tight, but if he let himself feel something—feel wanted—maybe he’d see things differently.

    Maybe he’d feel like I was worth the risk then.

    It hits me, as I enter my room, that we’re both scared. Afraid we’re not enough. We live in fear of the same type of rejection, and eventually, one of us will have to take a chance or this ship is going to sail.

    And I’m not sure I’m ready to give up hope just yet.

    With that in mind, I turn and walk back out of my room. Only a few steps down the hall to his. My fingers wrap around the doorknob and then I think better of just marching in. My opposite hand lifts to knock but a noise brings me up short.

    I lean closer, pressing my ear to the door.

    A groan. Abored breath. The whispered brush of skin against skin. “Fuck yeah,” he murmurs roughly.

    Heat crawls up my chest and res down through my hips, curling deliciously in my pelvis. Because I suspect I know exactly what Bash is doing.

    But knowing isn’t enough. The need to see him drives me forward.

    I me the wine for what I decide to do next. My hand twists before I can even think twice. As silently as possible, I ease the door open, just a sliver.

    Silvery moonlight streams into the room, highlighting the harsh lines of Bash’s naked silhouette. I can see him in full profile. He’s standing at the end of a massive bed, posture slightly curved as he fists his dick. Pumping and breathing in time.

    I shouldn’t stay and watch, but I also can’t look away. I’m entranced and lean closer.

    I watch as his palm twists over his length crudely. He moves from base to tip with harsh, jerky movements. The head of his thick, throbbing cock res out, a drop of wetness glistening at the end.

    I lick my lips and heat suffuses my entire body as my eyes catch on the tendons that flex in his forearms as he works himself into a frenzy. My core clenches as I take him in, my own breathing growing ragged as I watch a fantasy y out right before my eyes. I can’t decide which view is the best. My eyes jump from his face—all furrowed brows and concentration—to his cock, to his hand that’s dropped to grip the sheets as he holds himself up.

    But it’s his round, well-muscled ass flexing as he thrusts that’s enough to put me over the edge. I now know what I’ll be thinking about every single time I finish for the rest of my life.

    Roughly hewn muscles. Masculine angles. The way he’s panting.

    It’s primal. It’s hypnotic.

    And it only gets better.

    His body seizes, going still for a beat before he lifts his discarded T-shirt, fucks his hand a few more times, and blows while moaning my name.

    “Gwen.”

    It’s a breath, a rasp. A fucking prayer. And it will y on repeat in my head until the end of time.

    I move to cross my legs, to dull the ache between them, but the awkward position and my blood alcohol level do me dirty.

    And I stumble straight into Bash’s room.

    His shirt is still wrapped around his dick when I straighten. But his dark gaze? It’s on me.

    Furrowed brows, set jaw, the glint in his eye say he wants to take me over this knee. And honestly, I wouldn’t be mad at that. Still, he says nothing.

    I’m half expecting him to scold me, kick me out, and tell me how awful I am for invading his privacy like this. Except the way he’s regarding me tells a different story. He’s looking at me like fucking his hand while imagining us wasn’t enough.

    Like he needs the real thing instead.

    But I’m not so drunk that I don’t realize what a huge invasion this is. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. Embarrassment pummels me from every direction.

    What have I done?

    Reality seeps in—no, humiliation seeps in. “I…” I pause, not totally sure what to say. “I am so sorry. I promise this won’t happen again.”

    I back away as he stands there, ring at me. It’s hard to make out his exact expression in the darkened room, but I can feel his energy, and it’s dangerous.

    When I reach the traitorous doorway, I can’t help but add, “You know, unless you want it to.”

    “Gwen, what the—” He sounds exasperated but cuts off there. Like I’ve left him at a loss for words. Probably because both Clyde and I have really fucked with the peace of his bachelorhood tonight. The poor guy can’t catch a break in his own damn house.

    “I’m out!” I squeak, closing the door. “Going to bed! Good night! Sleep tight!” I call from the hallway, my voice painfully bright.

    Then I dart back to my room to die from embarrassment privately.

    But once that feeling passes, I slip a hand down my pajama bottoms and think about Bash.hr

    I wake up in the morning feeling slightly fuzzy and very guilty. Sober and in the light of day, the weight of my shame for spying on Bash feels especially heavy. I’m a more respectful person than that.

    So I prepare to face Bash and apologize to him.

    I shower, shave, do my skincare routine, and slick my hair back into a neat, battle-worthy bun. I’m going for wholesome, proper, girl next door. A polite young woman who would never be a creepy, filthy little voyeur while you rub one out.

    When I finally make my way downstairs, Clyde is nowhere to be seen. He’s probably gone back to bed again if he had a rough night. He’s definitely on the mend, but I know he still has a hard time gettingfortable at points. It keeps him up, and he crashes in the early morning hours.

    Bash, however, is sitting at the dining room table. In the exact chair he sat inst night. Images of our game pummel me, shing in my head like a flip-book.

    I freeze as I take him in. He looks so different in the morning light. Well rested, stubble trending just a little more toward a beard, hair perfectly gelled. He looks perfectly at ease—downright put together. Especiallypared to how I saw himst night.

    He doesn’t even look irritated with me. In fact, all he does is take a deep swig of his coffee and… smirk at me?

    It’s unnerving, but I forge ahead anyway.

    “Listen.” I start toward him but stop short, propping my hands on the ind countertop. It seems safer to keep a buffer between us. “I really need to apologize forst night. I was way, way out of line, and I—”

    “For which part? Failing to mention that you more than just”—his free hand lifts, fingers curling in air quotes—“‘understand the concept’ of poker?”

    My head joggles before I fix my gaze on him. “Okay, well, sure.”

    He pushes to stand and begins taking slow, casual steps in my direction. “Or is it for making me—a forty-year-old man—sneak around in his own house?”

    My lips purse. He’s really milking this. And his slow approach is doing nothing to calm my nerves. “That part takes two, ya know.”

    All I get in return is a lifted brow as he rounds the ind toward me. Okay, maybe I had been a little forward with the strip poker pressure, but he wasn’t exactly begging me to stop either.

    “Mostly, I’m sorry for invading your privacy. That was entirely out of character and definitely morally questionable.”

    He stops before me, props one side of that well-muscled ass I spent the night dreaming about against the counter’s edge, and takes another steaming sip of his coffee while nodding absently.

    He’s too much.

    I drop his gaze, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and leans in close, closing the distance between us anding almost chest to chest. I swear I can feel him inhale as all the air around me is instantly pulled out of reach.

    “The thing is, Gwen, next time you want to watch me, you should just ask.”

    My brain function stutters as my eyes snap to his. “Pardon me?”

    “You heard me.”

    My heart thuds in my ears, pulse rushing heavily through my entire body as my brain wraps itself around what he just t-out said to me.

    “I…” My jaw opens and closes. He’s officially caught me off guard. I was expecting a scolding, not an invitation. A soft, warming sensation takes root in my chest. This teasing, it feels borderline familiar. It takes me back to a snowy night in a dark terminal. To a version of myself who wasn’t afraid to say what was on her mind.

    It’s with that girl in mind that I respond. “I did hear you. And I heard you whisper my name when you came too. So maybe if you wanted me to watch, you should have told me.”

    Bash swallows as his gaze heats. I can see he’s about to say something back, his body coils—like he’s on the prowl.

    I find my shoulders tipping toward him in anticipation. My tongue darts out and a fluttery feeling bubbles up in my stomach. I’m hanging on to the moment with a sense of eagerness I’ve never felt before. Until the doorbell rings and the world around uses crashing back into focus.

    Both our heads whip toward the front door.

    “I’ll get it,” Bash grumbles, sounding annoyed by the interruption.

    He walks toward me, the smell of amber and cedar floating over his skin, and as he passes me, he squeezes my hip. Then his hand trails over my lower back. Fingertips skimming over the strip of bare skin between my baby tee and baggy jeans. Gooseflesh breaks out over my arms at the contact. And I watch him walk away, his round ass hugged by a pair of faded ck Levi’s.

    Looking like that should be illegal is all I can think. It makes me wonder if he really had been about to get up and put his money where his mouth is.

    But when he opens that door, all my wishful thinking dies a fast, fiery death.