Elena stood under the hot spray of the shower in her old bathroom for far longer than necessary. The water beat against her skin, washing away the remnants of the rainy drive and the tears she’d finally let fall. By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a soft towel, the house was quiet except for the steady drum of rain against the roof.
She pulled on a simple oversized t-shirt—one of the old ones she’d left behind—and a pair of soft cotton shorts. Nothing seductive. Just comfortable. Still, as she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t shake the memory of Marcus’s hands on her back, the way his eyes had lingered.
Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since the fight with Jake. Quietly, she padded downstairs toward the kitchen, not wanting to wake her mother.
The lights were dimmed, but Marcus was already there.
He stood at the marble island, wearing gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a fitted black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the powerful lines of his shoulders and arms. He was pouring hot water into two mugs. The scent of chamomile tea filled the air.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked without turning around, as if he’d sensed her presence.
Elena hesitated in the doorway, then stepped inside. “Hungry, mostly. And my mind won’t shut off.”
Marcus turned, sliding one mug toward her. His eyes flicked down briefly—taking in her bare legs, the way her damp hair fell over her shoulders, the thin t-shirt that clung to her curves. “Sit. I’ll make you something.”
She perched on one of the tall stools while he moved around the kitchen with quiet confidence. He heated leftover pasta, added some fresh parmesan, and set the plate in front of her. Simple. Comforting. Very Marcus.
They talked as she ate. About the breakup. About how Jake had never really made her feel secure. Marcus listened without judgment, leaning against the counter across from her, arms crossed over his broad chest. Every time she looked up, his gaze was on her face… or lower.
At one point, she reached for the pepper grinder at the same time he did. Their hands brushed. Neither pulled away immediately. His fingers were warm, rough, much larger than hers. The contact sent a little jolt straight through her.
“Sorry,” she murmured, but her voice came out softer than intended.
Marcus didn’t move his hand right away. “No need to apologize, baby girl.” His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles before he finally pulled back. The air between them felt thicker now.
As she finished eating, Elena stood to rinse her plate. Marcus moved to help at the same moment. They bumped into each other beside the sink—her back brushing against his front. She froze. He was right there, solid and warm, and she could feel the unmistakable outline of his cock pressing against her ass through the thin fabric of his sweatpants and her shorts.
He was hard.
Elena’s breath caught. She should step away. She knew she should. Instead, she stayed perfectly still, heart hammering.
Marcus’s hands settled on her hips, steadying her. “Easy,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. His breath ghosted against her ear. “I’ve got you.”
For several long seconds, they remained like that. His fingers flexed on her hips, not quite pulling her back against him, but not letting her go either. Elena could feel the heat radiating from his body, the heavy thickness of him nestled right against her. A shameful rush of wetness gathered between her thighs.
“Marcus…” she whispered.
He exhaled slowly, then stepped back, giving her space. But his hands lingered a moment longer, sliding along her waist before releasing her.
“Go get some rest,” he said, voice strained. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Elena nodded quickly, cheeks burning. She fled upstairs without looking back, pulse racing and thighs pressed tight together.
In her bedroom, she closed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. Her body was traitorously alive, aching in places it had no right to ache for the man downstairs.
The man who had just held her like he never wanted to let go.
Down in the kitchen, Marcus gripped the edge of the counter, jaw clenched, his cock still throbbing painfully against his sweatpants.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
This was dangerous.
And he already knew he wasn’t going to stop.