The water in the shower was scalding, turning my skin a flushed, rosy pink. I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, letting the spray wash away the evidence of our first encounter. Even as the soap slid down my curves, I could still feel the ghost of him—the weight of his body, the grip of his hands on my hips, and the lingering ache in my core where he had filled me. I felt heavy and satiated, yet there was a humming vibration in my nerves that refused to settle.
I stepped out and dried myself slowly, my thoughts drifting back to the way he had looked at me in the library.
There had been a hunger there that went beyond a simple bet. It was a recognition. We had spent months dancing around this, using intellect and academic rivalry as a veil for a desire that was practically radioac
