The apartment is dead quiet except for the fans barely humming. I need to do something. Anything to stop that moment replaying in my head over and over. Jake caught me. Hand in my shorts. Totally busted. That memory is burned into my brain like a cursed tattoo.

Pretty sure I can't hide from him in this shoebox apartment forever. Unfortunately.

They'll be home from work soon, and I need to get a grip by then. I need to do something to shut my brain off. Anything.

Susan's been whining about missing real food since all they do is order takeout. So I figure pancakes might be a nice surprise. Easy, right?

Yeah, no.

The pan starts smoking. The batter turns into a thick, black mess. I stare at it like maybe if I don't blink, it'll reverse itself.

"Shit," I mutter, yanking the window open and grabbing the pan off the burner.

The breeze barely moves. I grab a towel and wave it at the smoke like a maniac, praying the smoke alarm doesn't go off. My face is on fire, sweat dripping down my chest, my tank slipping low. My shorts stick to my legs like I've been dipped in syrup.

I should've just made toast.

The front door clicks open and I freeze, towel mid-swipe. Jake steps in. His blue shirt sticks to his chest, soaked with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead like he ran through steam. His eyes lock on me.

I straighten, clutching the towel. My skin's sticky, my heart hammering, praying I don't look as wrecked as I feel.

"Hey," I blurt. "I was, uh... trying to make pancakes."

Jake's eyes flick to the still-smoking pan, then back to me. His lips twitch, but he says nothing. He drops his keys and walks over, stepping way too close for my nerves.

"Looks like it's going well," he says, voice thick with amusement.

I groan and let the dish towel fall to my side. "Okay, so maybe I'm not exactly the domestic type. But I was trying."

He laughs. "That's more than Susan ever does in the kitchen."

He leans in to check the damage, and I swear the air shifts. The stove's still hot, but not half as hot as I feel with him this close. I can smell his cologne under the sweat. My thighs press together instantly.

He grabs the spatula, scraping the pan with one hand. "You just need more oil," he says, like it's no big deal. Like he didn't just walk in on me getting off to the thought of him a few hours ago.

He glances at me, and there it is. That grin. The one that scrambles every thought. All I want is to close the distance, press into him, and kiss him until I forget how awkward I feel.

Say something! Don't just stand here like an idiot.

"Thanks, Chef Jake," I say, leaning against the counter. "I'll make sure to write that down."

His grin stretches wider. Blood rushes south so fast my head spins.

Then his eyes drop. And linger.

I snap my arms across my chest, hiding my nipples poking hard through the paper-thin fabric. I hate that what I really want is to take off my top. I want him to look.

His smile fades, like he snaps out of it.

He lifts the pan. "You want me to start over?"

I shake my head too fast. "No. I've got it."

Go. Just go. If he doesn't move soon, I'm going to lose it.

"Alright."

He steps back, handing me the pan. Our fingers brush, just barely, but it zaps straight to my core.

Fucking hell. My body's a traitor.

"Thanks," I mumble, gripping the handle.

Jake doesn't move, his eyes locked on me like he's trying to make up his mind about something. My pulse quickens, pounding in my ears.

Finally, he turns and heads down the hallway. "Gonna shower," he mutters under his breath.

When the door clicks shut, I let out a long breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. I stare at the burnt mess, toss it in the sink, and start scrubbing the pan, trying to wash away the throbbing ache he left behind.

By some miracle, the next batch turns out golden and fluffy. I stack them on a plate. The smell of vanilla and butter fills the kitchen. Maybe I'm not totally hopeless.

Water running breaks the silence. I glance toward the hallway. The bathroom door isn't fully closed.

No. Ignore it. Don't...

But my feet move on their own. Curiosity hums louder than common sense.

The crack in the door widens as I step closer. Steam curls into the hall, hot and damp against my skin.

Stop. Don't look.

I look.

My breath catches when I see him through the fogged glass of the shower.

Jake. Back turned. Water sliding down his broad shoulders. Every line of muscle on display like some twisted prize I'm not allowed to want.

His ass flexes, tight as hell, every damn time he shifts under the stream. Pure fucking punishment.

He tilts his head back to rinse his hair, and I nearly choke. That jaw. That neck. That wet body I've been trying so hard not to imagine pressing down on me. And failing.

I've only been with one guy. Tim.

Tim was sweet. Skinny. Nerdy as hell. He asked permission to unhook my bra. Wore anime T-shirts and said "consensual intercourse" like it was sexy. He came in two minutes and apologized after.

Jake is the opposite of all that. Hot as fuck.

He's calm. In control. The kind of guy who doesn't fumble or ask where things go, he just knows.

Then I see those hands. One presses to the wall. The other wraps around his cock.

My brain fries. Just static behind my eyes and heat everywhere else.

He starts stroking. Slow, sure. My thighs press together so fast I almost fall.

I should turn away. Pretend I haven't just seen that.

But I don't.

I just stand there, nerves blazing, watching him jerk off.

Maybe he's thinking about me.

The burning between my thighs spikes. Wet, pulsing, so sharp it almost hurts.

My hand slips under my shorts before I can think. Just one rub. My fingers press the soaked fabric against my clit, and the jolt is instant. Too much. Not enough.

The pressure hits, swollen and throbbing. I press harder. The friction grinds against that slick, swollen spot and everything clenches. I'm shaking. My knees almost give out.

A soft, broken moan slips free before I can stop it.

Shit.

I yank my hand back like I've touched fire.

Jake stiffens. Then he turns. Fuck, fuck.

Water drips from his jaw, spilling down his chest, tracing every ridge and valley before settling into the grooves of muscle across his stomach. I see all of him. Every inch.

My breath hitches. I stumble back, grab the door to keep from falling on my ass, and fling it wide open. Real smooth.

His eyes catch mine through the steam, imprisoning me with a hold I can't break. His fist is still wrapped around his cock, tight.

Time freezes as we stare at each other.

Jake starts stroking again. Slow at first, daring me to look away. Then faster, his grip tightening, chest rising with each quick breath.

My breath stutters. My thighs clench.

He pumps harder, his forearm flexing with each stroke. I can hear it now. The slick sound of his fist gliding over his cock.

His hips twitch forward, fucking into nothing. And all I can think about is how it would feel if those hips were slamming into me. Hard. Deep. Over and over.

My thighs press together like that'll help, like I'm not already soaked from just watching.

I should run. I should shut my eyes. I should do anything but stand here.

"Becky," he groans, voice strained.

My name. On his lips.

It crashes through me like lightning. I feel it everywhere, like I might cum just from hearing it.

His head tips back, mouth slack with a broken gasp. Then he comes. Hard.

Thick white streaks hit the glass in sharp bursts. His abs tighten, his jaw clenched as his eyes slam shut.

I can't look away.

His fist slows, dragging over his length, squeezing out every last throb.

Susan.

Her face flashes in my head like a slap.

I spin and bolt for my room, breath ragged, stomach twisted like I've done something filthy. I betrayed my sister.

I slam the door behind me and squeeze my eyes shut, willing the image of Jake cumming out of my head, but it's imprinted in there now.

Seconds stretch out forever. My heart won't slow. I keep waiting for Jake to follow. To knock. To say something. I don't even know if I want him to yell at me or—

Footsteps. I freeze. He walks past, straight into their bedroom. I finally let out a shaky breath.

Then the front door opens.

"What's that smell?" Susan calls out.

"Becky made pancakes," Jake's voice answers from down the hall. "Almost burned the whole place down first."

Susan laughs. "Yeah, we'd be stuck on cereal forever if she ran the kitchen."

A knock at my door. Before I can say anything, it swings open.

Susan's there, in a floral summer dress. She smiles, sharp as a knife. "Come on, let's eat and see what disaster you've made."

I can't face Jake.

"I'm not hungry. You guys enjoy."

Susan's eyes flash. "Get your ass up, Becky. We're eating together. No excuses."

I take a deep breath, swallowing the knot in my throat. My legs tremble, but I force them forward. Every step feels like walking straight into a trap with no escape.

All I want is to disappear. To be anywhere but here.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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