Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

I ’m drenched in sweat.

I close the door of our rental home behind me, trying to catch my breath as Paramore blares through my earphones. I’d initially gone out for a walk while I called Nan, but as she started droning on about who was sleeping with who in her home, I started getting antsy and decided to go for a run instead.

Bad idea. I’m terribly out of shape, hence my inability to catch my breath. Still, when Gran hung up because she had a poker game to attend and she “wouldn’t miss that just to talk to me,” I decided to put on music and push myself to run as long as I could. It wasn’t very long, but it still shook some of the restlessness I’d been feeling for the past few days while being stuck in a bus with five other people. Even now that we’re in an Airbnb for the next day, it’s still stifling.

As I walk to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, I pick up various items of clothing strewn across the floor, from lone socks to jeans and even boxers—how they all got there, I have no idea. I sure won’t miss this when I get back.

Tonight’s my last night on this leg of the tour. I’ve gathered and produced enough content to last for weeks while I traveled with the band, and anyway, Finn and Lexie’s wedding is in three days, so I have to return home.

I grab my water, then finish picking up all the stuff the guys left out, dancing to yet another song at the same time. We’ve only been here for one night, but the entire living area is a mess, just like it was on the bus. I clean the kitchen, then the living room, and only when I get to the dining room do I notice the box of grocery store chocolate chip cookies left on the table with my name written on it, in Emmett’s calligraphy. I smile, thinking back to the moment a few days ago when I said I missed baking in my kitchen. He might have thought I meant I missed the products more than I missed the act of baking, but the intention means just as much.

Yeah, never mind, I’ll miss being here.

I grab two cookies, then make my way to the second floor, where the bedrooms and the bathroom we all share are. Everyone left for sound checks right before I went on my run, so I’ll be able to take as much time as I want in the shower before I have to return to my editing.

I hum the new song that’s been shuffled from my playlist, throwing my stinky tank top and shorts in my bedroom before stepping into the bathroom.

And then I freeze.

The sounds die in my mouth as I take in the scene in front of me, blinking repeatedly.

Carter is standing in the shower, steam billowing around him as he leans one hand against the tiled wall, water dripping over his head and down his chiseled back and ass. He’s facing the shower wall, so he doesn’t see me, but even so, he looks too focused to notice anything.

Movement makes my eyes drag lower, and a volcano erupts inside of me as I notice the grip he has on his length, jerking up and down the thick girth.

Oh God. I can’t be here. I need to carefully walk away and forget I ever saw anything.

And yet I don’t move. I don’t know how to. My mouth falls open as I take in the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the sharp way his hips thrust in his hand, those damn tendons in his neck tensing as he pleasures himself, shudders running through his body. My ears drown out the music still playing in my ears as if all my senses need to dull so I can give my entire attention to this.

Carter’s jaw shifts as he bites into his full lower lip, and even though I can’t hear him, imagining the sounds he makes is enough to build a throbbing ache between my legs.

I’ve never seen anything so hot. Scratch that, I never even thought something so hot could exist.

I really need to get the hell out of here. It’s too late to erase the image from my eyes—I could never forget the way Carter looks like when gripping his cock—rough, decisive, entranced—but maybe if I leave, I’ll get a slim chance of being able to move on and also make sure he never knows I was here.

But I must be a masochist because I stay, inhaling each of Carter’s sharp exhales, dreaming of the taste of the droplets sliding between his tense shoulder blades, wishing it were my hand around him instead of his .

I’m going to hell, fantasizing about my fake husband I’m developing very real feelings for and watching him like this.

My heart races as I continue tracking his right hand that moves from his swollen tip all the way to the clean-shaven base and back. It’s something I’ve seen some of my exes do plenty of times, yet this is a world away. I’ve never felt this crazed while watching a man touch himself, never felt like crawling out of my skin from how aroused I was. Wetness pools at my entrance, and when his movements get faster, I hold my breath, almost as if I’ll get my release instead of him.

I thought Carter was hot before, but he looks god-like as his control loosens on his movements, muscles bunching in the arm holding him up against the wall. So much so that when he releases a groan loud enough for me to hear through the music, I gasp.

His head turns my way, and our eyes lock.

Oh God. No, no, no.

Neither one of us looks away, and while I know this is the moment I need to leave, I’m rooted in place. One of us should acknowledge what is happening here, how we’re shattering the glass wall we’ve erected between us. I should be the one doing it, looking away, but I physically can’t. He doesn’t stop either, his hand only moving faster around himself, and something that looks almost like pain crosses his face before he shatters, spilling against the wall, his glowing eyes never leaving mine.

I follow every jerk of his body, every twitch of his back. His orgasm seems to last forever as his knuckles turn white where he’s holding himself against the wall. When he’s done, the veins in his neck pulse as he catches his breath, body looking weak. He blinks. Blinks again.

And that is the moment I realize the full extent of what just happened, and freaking finally, I get my body to move, running all the way back to my bedroom and locking the door behind me.

I pull my earbuds out as I lean my back against the door, heart thrashing against my ribcage. The sound of the running shower disappears a few seconds later.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I messed up. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to look at him again without imagining him in all kinds of pornographic images, and that’s not what we signed up for. At least not what he signed up for.

Footsteps come from the hallway, making me tense up.

I hate that I stayed and watched him. I hate that I wanted to stay and watch him.

More than that, I hate that I want to get my vibrator and come with his name on my lips.

The footsteps slow in front of my door, and I hold my breath and close my eyes as if I can get him to forget about me if I try hard enough. I can’t have a mature conversation about this. Not now, at least, when I’m still amped up and need to control all the lust I feel for him.

A moment passes, then another, and finally, the footsteps resume.

My muscles loosen enough that my back slides along the door so I fall on my ass. The wood burns my skin, reminding me that not only did I stare at my fake husband jerk off, I also did so while only wearing panties and a sports bra.

Fantastic.

I pull at the roots of my hair, trying to get me to think about something other than the face Andrew Carter makes when he comes. It doesn’t work.

I need to leave first thing tomorrow morning. Hopefully, the time away will do me good. It has to. The way I felt for Carter had already gotten bad, but this has made things so much worse. I can’t be thinking of him like this. Not if I want to get out of this marriage in one piece. I know a part of him cares about me, that’s obvious, but his small infatuation will never equal my deep feelings, and I’ll only end up hurt.

And yet there’s a tiny voice inside of me that says, he let you stay . He could’ve jumped and told me to get out. He could have yelled or hidden. Maybe he was too lost in his moment to react properly, or maybe, just maybe, he wanted me right where I was.