Chapter 31: Cold Showers
Oliver trudged back to his room, his body tense. Del’s reaction moments ago was still in his mind. God, she was adorable. And that only made things worse since it left him painfully hard.
As soon as he locked his door, his hand slid beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers curling around his erection. He was already halfway to giving himself some relief, gripping his stiff length, before he froze. Del was right there, in the next room, probably still wide-eyed and flushed.
“I’m an idiot,” he muttered to himself.
He couldn’t do this, not with her so close. Reluctantly, he let go, his hand falling to his side as he grabbed a towel from the chair by his desk. Thankfully, the house was quiet when he left the room. Del wasn’t in the hallway, living room, or kitchen. He headed straight for the bathroom to cool off.
Inside, he tossed the towel on the rack and stepped out of his sweatpants. He turned on the shower, adjusting the knob until the water ran cold enough.
As soon as he stepped under the stream, the cold hit his chest, his shoulders, and then all the way down, shocking his nerves. But it wasn’t enough. His body still ached.
He gritted his teeth, hands braced against the tiled wall, forehead touching the cool surface. He wanted her, not just the thought of her, but the idea of settling for his own hand while she was so close left a sour taste in his mouth.
He sighed, trying to will his body into submission. He wasn’t some hormonal teenager. He could control himself. But hell, she didn’t make it easy.
Oliver stayed under the spray for several long minutes, and only when the cold started to settle into his bones did he reach for the soap and begin to actually wash.
By the time he stepped out and dried off, it was probably one of the longest showers he’d ever taken—and still, it didn’t clear his head completely.
With a towel slung around his waist, he wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at himself. His hair was dripping, his eyes slightly red from the cold.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, the house was still quiet. The kitchen remained empty. He then made his way upstairs.
He entered his room and let out a breath. The cold shower had done its job—mostly—but the problem hadn’t exactly vanished. So he busied his mind, walking over to the edge of his bed and starting to prepare what he’d wear for the day. A shirt was pulled from the dresser, and pants lay out on the chair.
Then he paused when he heard a door close down the hall. Less than a minute later, the main door downstairs closed with a solid thud.
Del was gone.
Oliver’s hand stilled where it rested on his shirt. His jaw clenched. Then came the frustration again. He stood there for a moment, jaw clenched, then let out a long, heavy sigh.
He glanced down. The damn towel wasn’t even hiding anything anymore. He was still hard. Still aching. “Fuck.”
He stared at the door to his room. Then, after a long hesitation, he pulled it open. He padded down the hallway barefoot. He stopped in front of Del’s bathroom. The door was unlocked, slightly ajar, inviting him in. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle.
This was wrong; he knew it, but the pull was too strong. And then he muttered under his breath, “Just looking.” As if saying it out loud made it less invasive.
He pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.
The air hit him first; it was still warm and faintly scented with her. He scanned the room, his eyes darting over the sink, the damp towel hanging on the rack, and the faint steam still clinging to the mirror.
Then he saw it: in the corner, a small laundry bin, Del’s used pajamas, and a soft T-shirt spilling over the edge. Nestled between them, barely visible, was a pair of black cotton panties.
Oliver cursed under his breath, “Damn it.”
His heart pounded, his fingers twitching as he stepped closer, drawn to the bin like a moth to a flame.
He hesitated, his hand hovering over the fabric. But the need won out. He plucked the panties from the pile, the cotton soft and slightly warm in his grip. Bringing them to his face, he inhaled deeply, the scent of Del—intimate, unmistakable—flooding his senses.
He groaned, louder this time. He turned the panties over in his hands, his thumb brushing the fabric, and froze when he noticed the damp center, a faint wet spot.
His brain stalled. Then he blinked, still holding them. Was she wet last night? That morning? Was it because of what happened between them?
The thought made his knees weak, his arousal almost painful now.
With a series of curses under his breath, he left the bathroom, Del’s panties still in his hand, and slipped back into his room.
Back in his room, he moved to the bed, sitting against the pillows propped along the headboard. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he stared at the soft cotton in his hand.
Then the towel fell open as he untied it, his lean thighs spreading slightly, his erection standing rigid against his stomach, the tip glistening faintly.
It was a line he never intended to cross. But the line was behind him now.
With Del’s panties in one hand, he pressed them to his nose again, inhaling her scent, his eyes fluttering shut. His other hand wrapped around himself, fingers curling tightly around his cock, thumb brushing over the slick head.
“Del,” he groaned, the name a low, possessive growl. He began to stroke, slowly at first, his grip firm, savoring the friction as his hand moved up and down. The scent of her filled his lungs, each inhale driving his strokes faster, his hips shifting against the bed. His fingers tightened, sliding along his length.
“Fuck…oh fuck…” he whimpered, the words spilling out as his hand pumped harder.
His thumb circled the tip again, spreading the precum, his strokes growing erratic. The panties stayed pressed to his face, his nose buried in the damp center, the scent overwhelming. His lean frame tensed, muscles in his arms and thighs flexing as he worked himself, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
Then a soft whimper escaped him as his hips bucked, chasing his release. “Oh, fuck!” he gasped.
His body arched, his free hand clutching the panties tighter, pressing them to his mouth as if he could taste her.
With a final, loud, choked groan, his release spilled over his hand, hot and pulsing, his hips jerking. His strokes slowed, milking every last shudder, his chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow.
Oliver collapsed back against the pillows, his breathing heavy and uneven. Silence soon followed. And he lay there, his body spent but his obsession burning brighter than ever.