No.
I shake my head and turn back to my bag. When I hear the click of the bathroom door closing, I drop my towel and quickly slide into a pair of black Calvin Klein sleep shorts and a tight black tank top. No bra. My breasts aren’t big enough for it to matter. This stretchy material presses them into place without issue.
I sit on the cot, and a spring pokes my ass through the flimsy mattress. It’s fine. I didn’t torture myself in pointe shoes for years to be put off by a minor discomfort.
As I lie back on the squeaky cot, the glimpse of Jasper’s tattoo keeps popping up in my head. I’ve always known Jasper has a lot of tattoos. What started out as one grew into many. They cover his biceps, twist over his shoulders, and crawl down his forearms. They’re all black, the older ones more faded than the newer ones.
For me, they just add to his appeal. Men like Sterling don’t get tattoos. They get facials. Jasper isn’t “one of us” as my dad would say—a comment that rings a lot more offensive now that I’ve removed my blinders.
Jasper is nothing like the men I grew up around. He’s raw and dirty and loves so hard he hurts himself in the process.
And I want to know what that fucking tattoo is.
I stand, storm across the room, and toss the bathroom door open, stepping into the space.
One strong hand props Jasper’s hulking form up against the shower wall while the other grips his cock, pumping up and down slowly.
His head turns to me.
Wet caramel hair frames his face, and the spray from the shower lashes his spine before streaming down in rivulets over his tightly muscled back and perfectly round ass.
I always knew Jasper’s body was great, that he spent long hours training and working and taking care of himself, but he’s . . . magazine worthy. His body looks cut from stone.
Right along with his cock.
“I’m sorry,” I say instantly, frozen on the spot, staring at his well-proportioned body. He’s a big man and so is his . . .
“No, you’re not.” His eyes hold a wicked glint as they fixate on me. He straightens, but his hand keeps twisting languidly, casually, like it’s perfectly normal for him to jerk off while I watch.
“I didn’t mean to barge in here.”
“Yes, you did.” He smirks at me now, and my knees go a little weak.
He knows me too well to pull off playing stupid. Plus, I promised myself I’d stop apologizing for being myself.
And myself really wants to see Jasper naked.
I stand here, mouth popping open and closed like a fish out of water, not sure what to do now because . . . his hand is still moving. The muscles and veins in his forearms ripple as he pumps.
“Sloane, close the door and sit on the counter.”
Pump.
“Pardon me?” My heart thrashes wildly in my chest.
“Shut the door.”
Pump.
“And put that tight little ass up on the counter.”
Pump.
My cheeks flame.
“We both know you want to watch.”
I want to deny it, tell him he’s crazy and out to lunch. That we’re friends and I don’t want to ruin our relationship.
The truth is, though, I want to ruin it. Badly.
My brain might be in bitch mode, but my heart? My heart is in slut mode.
I take a couple of steps and lift my tight little ass onto the counter.
Pump.
“Good girl,” the toned Adonis in the shower praises me, and my fingers tighten around the edge of the counter hard enough to snap a nail.
He’s so brazen, so unlike the quiet, broody man I know. His eyes lick over my skin like fire, and he never stops jerking himself as he incinerates me. Every muscle in his body is held taut, every line defined. His pecs. His abs. Those sharp V-lines that trail down to where all the action is taking place.
A prim voice inside me tells me the polite thing to do is look away.
But tonight I’m not being the polite woman I’ve been told I should be.
So I stare. I take it all in. The round, smooth head. The thick girth. The smattering of hair that leads to his toned stomach.
I absently lick my lips and he groans. My gaze snaps up to those navy eyes I know so well. They hold me captive. They’re simmering with a heat I’ve never seen. He’s done a good job of looking at me like I’m a friend, but he isn’t right now.
He’s looking at me like I’m his.
“Sloane,” he rasps as his fingers curl into the vinyl wall. “Look at me. Talk to me.”
I lick my lips again, shifting and feeling how slick I am from watching him. If I slid a hand into my shorts, I could make myself come in seconds. “Keep going,” is all I say back, squeezing my thighs together as I revel in the wet slapping sounds of his increased pace.
“You wearing anything under those shorts, honey?” I didn’t think his voice could get any lower, but it does.
“No.” My heads shakes rapidly and I swallow.
Jasper’s responding groan is pure masculinity. “I could so easily pull them to the side and see it all.” His words vibrate through my body, hitting my core with an almost painful pang of longing. For that. Exactly what he’s describing.
His gaze drops and I squirm under the weight of it. He stares hard at the apex of my thighs, where my shorts are wedged up just a little too tightly. Then his heated stare snags on my hard nipples, the frantic rise and fall of my chest, before he dives back into my eyes.
The eye contact is unnerving.
It’s erotic. He looks wild and undone.
“Fuck,” he curses before murmuring, “Sloane,” again. His body grows rigid, every hard edge of him strung tight as he tugs at his cock savagely.
And then the first shot of his cum sprays onto the glass wall in front of him. A moan erupts from my throat at the sight. Another surge. And another.
It feels messy and animalistic, and my body is a fiery ball of nerves as I watch him fall apart in front of me with my name on his lips.
I’ve never felt more important to someone, and the man hasn’t even touched me.
His chin drops to his chest, and I watch him pant, his body heaving. I’m in the same boat. It’s like I just went through an entire choreography at full intensity.
My eyes bounce between his body and the cum slipping down the glass.
He shifts the showerhead, muscles flexing as he rinses the glass before turning the shower off and stepping out of the water. He doesn’t bother covering himself. There isn’t an ounce of self-consciousness in him.
In fact, when he sees me staring, he smirks.
Droplets of water hug his skin in a way that makes me irrationally jealous. Then he reaches for a towel, and I see it again.
The tattoo.
“I came in here because I wanted to see that.” One shaky hand points at his rib cage.
He towels himself off. “You wanted to watch me fuck my hand while I pretended it was you in those tiny shorts? That’s why you barged in here?”
My core clenches and goose bumps break out along the back of my neck, cool sweat on my temples. I swallow and push ahead. “I’m talking about the tattoo, Jas.”
He glances up now, seeing where I’m pointing, and lifts his left arm. I get a full view of the tiny ballerina inked on his skin. It looks like the ones inside a jewelry box I’d been thinking about earlier.