I sneak past the kitchen and head upstairs, take a shower—I changed at the club, but blood is persistent—and change again into some gym clothes. I’m heading to the cardio gym when Emily wheels down the hallway, giving me one of her arched romance-hefuckingyebrows.
“And where do youfuckingyou’re going?”
Hazel appears behind her, face flushed. A blot of flour clings to her lips that I can all too easily imagine kissing away. She’s wearing an apron, like my fantasy, ending just far enough above the knee to give me a glimpse of bare thigh. How beautiful it’d be to run my hand up under that apron, explore the flesh beneath, feel the wetness of her begging s*x.
“We’re baking cakes.” Hazel is smiling, but I see the reproach in her eyes. We both know I’ve been avoiding her. “Emily tells me that
