The early light filtered through the wide, cream-colored curtains, casting soft golden beams over the bedroom. A quiet calm had settled over the mansion, and within the stillness, Xander stirred awake.
His eyes fluttered open, slightly hazy from sleep, and the first thing he saw was her.
Erin.
Her face was turned slightly toward him, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her lashes resting gently on flushed cheeks. The memory of her lips, her body, her trembling whispers from the night before—it all came rushing back like a tide too vast to resist.
He couldn't look away.
It felt unreal. Unreal that she was here, that they'd crossed the line neither of them had expected to blur. He had touched her. Held her. Entered her. And she had let him. Welcomed him. Matched him.
And now—
Now, he was afraid.
Not afraid of what they had done. Not afraid of her.
He was afraid of what he had become in the aftermath. Of what it meant to need someone like this. Of what it meant to realize, with an intensity that struck him like lightning, that he could no longer let her go.
He had thought that if she ever wanted to leave, he would let her. He thought he would be able to walk away. But as he looked at her now, barely breathing, he knew the truth.
He wouldn't be able to.
Even if she asked him to, even if she tried to run, he wouldn't be able to.
And maybe that made him selfish.
But he didn't care.
He needed her.
Her eyes slowly blinked open, the haze of sleep still clouding their depths, and she turned slightly—then froze when she saw his face so close to hers.
Their eyes locked. Her cheeks turned pink.
Xander reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She made a move to scoot back, to create space between them. But he didn't let her. His arm curled around her waist, pulling her back against him.
He pressed a tender kiss to her lips.
Her breath caught, and when they parted, her blush deepened. Xander smirked.
"You're still shy? After everything we did last night?"
Erin scoffed and turned her face away. "Who said I'm shy?"
"Oh? Then what would you call this little tomato-face you're wearing right now?"
She glared at him, but the spark in her eyes gave her away. "It's called glowing. You wouldn't understand."
Xander chuckled, a low and rare sound, and before he could react, she took advantage of his amusement and slipped from his embrace.
"I'm going to take a shower," she said, grabbing a towel from the dresser.
He watched her disappear into the bathroom, the bathroom she usually used alone. And typically, he would take the guest one next door. But not today.
Today, everything had changed.
A few seconds later, Erin turned at the sound of the door creaking open behind her. Her eyes widened when she saw him entering, shirtless, that same teasing glint still lighting up his features.
"What are you doing?"
"Joining you," he said smoothly. "Hope you don't mind."
Her gaze darted to the stream of water already pouring down. "Since when do you use this one?"
He stepped forward, close enough to trap her against the wall of steam and tile. "Since last night."
Erin opened her mouth to respond but gasped as his hands found her waist, pulling her into the spray of warm water.
He reached behind her, grabbed the showerhead, and shifted it to a gentler stream. Then, without warning, the water was trailing down her neck, over her chest, across her abdomen—and lower.
She squirmed as he angled the water between her thighs, and her knees buckled slightly from the sudden jolt of pleasure.
Her hands instinctively clutched his arms.
"X-Xander—"
"Let me take care of you," he murmured, his voice like silk, full of heat and gravity.
He dropped the showerhead into its holder and turned her gently, until her chest was pressed against the wall. She let out a shaky breath, gripping the smooth tiles as his hands roamed over her hips.
He pressed his chest to her back, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
And then—
He eased into her.
She let out a broken gasp, the contrast of cool tile and hot water, his heat, his presence—overwhelming her.
His hand curled around her front, fingers locking with hers against the wall. The other traced her curves, then slid upward to cup her breast as he moved, deep and slow, then faster.
They didn't speak—only ragged breaths, low moans, and water trailing down their bodies.
When he pressed kisses to her shoulder, to her cheek, and finally turned her head enough to capture her lips in a side kiss, it was rough and soft all at once.
Urgency and intimacy collided.
By the time they stepped out of the shower, bodies flushed, breathing uneven, they were both drenched in something far more than water.
Clothes were slipped on in silence, in glances that lingered longer than they should.
And when they finally walked out of the room together, they knew without speaking that everything had changed.