DEREK

I closed the guest room door behind me and stood still for a moment, my hand still on the knob. Had I thought of everything? Was there anything else he would need? I’d told him about the towels, right? Maybe he’d like an extra blanket? Some deodorant? A razor?

What the hell are you doing? Leave him alone already.

I yanked my hand off the knob as if it had burned me and went downstairs. After locking the back door and setting the alarm, I walked through the shadowy kitchen and noticed his notebook on the counter, right next to his phone. I picked it up, fighting the urge to look inside it. What was it, a journal or something? Or a screenplay? Curiosity about him battled with my conscience.

Put it down, asshole. Whatever it is, it’s private.

I set it on the counter again, but I couldn’t stop looking at it. Maybe he’d want it upstairs. And what about his phone? He’d need that up there, wouldn’t he?

Stop it. He’s probably asleep already.

I could knock softly.

You could let it go until morning.

But he might want to call his friend again tonight.

That’s an excuse and you know it.

It was. And I did.

Frowning, I stood there for a few minutes with one hand on his phone. The truth was, I was drawn to him, and it wasn’t only his looks. It was his warmth and optimism. His manners. His gratitude. He struck me as someone who didn’t take things for granted like a lot of Americans do. And I liked the way he’d come here determined to change his life, leaving everything and everyone he knew behind. Not because he felt entitled to something better, but because he had a dream and he was willing to work for it. He was almost like someone from another era—part of a generation of immigrants that had come here and built this country into what it was today. They might not have had a lot of resources, but they had backbone. Fortitude. Grit.

And okay, fine—I liked that he’d taken his shoes off without my having to ask.

But I was worried for him too. How was he going to get by? Did he at least have some money saved? Where would he live? How was he going to eat? I felt protective of him somehow, almost like since I’d come to his rescue, now I was responsible for making sure he’d be okay here.

Don’t be fucking ridiculous. He’s twenty-four, not twelve. He doesn’t need you. Plus, he has a friend here already.

But look how he’d let Maxim down today. How responsible could he be? And Maxim didn’t know anyone else here, so maybe he’d need someone like me to help him out. At least until he met new friends.

Not that it would take long. He’d probably have a girlfriend soon, too. Of course he would. A gorgeous young blonde with huge blue eyes like his. Curves for days. Legs a mile long. They’d fall in love fast and get married right away, which would solve his immigration problem, but no one would ever think he’d married her just so he could stay—it would be obvious how crazy they were about each other. They’d be fucking perfect together. His dream life would be a reality. Cue the fucking sunset.

I was irrationally angry about it all.

But that meant it really didn’t matter if I wanted a couple more minutes talking to him tonight, did it? After all, once he left tomorrow, I’d probably never see him again. This would be it.

I unplugged the charger from the outlet.

A minute later, I was standing in the upstairs hallway outside the closed bathroom door, listening to the shower running. What I should have done was leave his things in the guest room where he’d find them and go the fuck to bed. But I didn’t. Instead I stood there like a fucking creeper, imagining him naked underneath the spray.

Stop it right there. Not okay.

The water went off, but I still didn’t leave. I pictured him drying off with one of my towels, hanging it up (yes, in my fantasies, everyone hangs up their towels), and pulling on my clothes. I’d had some underwear still in the package as well as a couple new pairs of socks, so I’d given those to him, as well as a pair of athletic pants, a clean T-shirt, and a hoodie. I’d never loaned another guy my clothes before.

Jesus, what the fuck does it matter? Get out of the hallway before he opens the door and catches you standing here, you fucking lunatic!

I hurried into his room and placed his notebook and phone on the nightstand, but I wasn’t quick enough. He entered the room as I was turning for the door.

“Hey,” he said, his expression surprised. He ran a hand through his wet hair. His chest was bare, and the sweatpants hung low on his hips, so low I could see the top half of the V on his lower abdominals. Although he wasn’t bulky, every muscle on his upper body was sharply defined. My eyes traveled over his skin, lingering low. Deep inside me, something dangerous stirred.

Fuck. This was a mistake.

I forced myself to look up. “Hey. Sorry to bother you. I was just—” I blanked, unsure how to finish my sentence. “I thought you might want your phone and your notebook. I put them on the nightstand.”

He smiled. “That’s so nice of you. I was thinking I should probably call my mother.”

I nodded quickly and moved around him toward the door, giving myself a wide berth. “Night.”

“Night,” he echoed.

But I was already halfway down the hall.

* * *

Ten minutes later, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with my hands behind my head.

I was angry with myself. I should know better than to allow that depraved part of me to surface, however briefly. Everything I wanted to achieve in life depended on keeping those dark, confusing urges buried. And hadn’t I mastered the disguise already? Hadn’t I spent years learning to control my sexual appetite? Hadn’t I succeeded in suppressing every forbidden desire I had to the point where I barely felt any desire at all? Why was I letting a couple hours in the company of one handsome stranger undo me?

Because it feels good, desire.

Exhaling, I closed my eyes. It did feel good, that dark and dangerous thing he had awoken in me. It made me feel virile. Carnal. Alive. It gave me hunger, thirst, want. Even now, it threatened to overcome my defenses as my right hand slid down the front of my pants.

Because it feels good, desire.

My cock grew harder inside my fist as I pictured Maxim’s bare chest, tight abs, the sharp V. I threw off the covers, hating myself.

Because it feels good, desire.

His skin would be warm and damp from his shower. His mouth firm and generous. His hands strong. I wanted them on me instead of my own. I wanted mine on him. I wanted to be rough with him, punish him for making me feel this. Be punished in turn for feeling it, for giving in to it.

Because it feels good, desire.

My hand worked harder, faster, tighter. My hips flexed. My stomach muscles contracted. I imagined us together—two hard, strong, muscular bodies moving against each other—unmasked, unabashed, unapologetic. I heard my name on his lips. I tasted his skin on my tongue. I felt his entire body stiffen—or maybe it was mine—all the tension inside me pulling viciously tight, as if it was still trying to suppress the urge, keep the secret, tame the animal, but it’s doomed to fail, there is nothing stronger than lust at that moment, no power so great, and all that I am burst from me in a sudden pulsing rush.

Afterward, my heart still thundering in my chest, my stomach sticky, I lay there hoping I hadn’t made any noise, or that if I had, a hallway between two closed doors would be enough to smother it.

A minute later, I went into my bathroom to clean up, mad at myself for indulging in fantasy but determined to put it behind me. What I’d done was wrong, but ultimately it was meaningless. No need to agonize over it or torture myself. I wasn’t confused; I’d had a moment of weakness, that’s all.

But the moment was over now, and I had total control—of my body, of my mind, of my behavior.

I wouldn’t lose it again.