“There isn’t a spider.” I scowled at him.

Our eyes met in the mirror. He looked down to turn the tap on, a small smile on his face. He took his time, washing his hands from the probably imaginary spider, toweling them off, then turning around to face me. When he did, he crowded me with his body, making me take a step back toward the shower. The glass door was open, and my injured shoulder bumped into it. I winced.

Hunter picked up a wisp of my freshly cut hair, rubbing it. We both watched the magnificent softness of it, so delicate I feared it’d melt like butter between his fingertips.

“Chopping your hair off won’t stop me from grabbing it when we have sex,” he said tonelessly.

I looked away, feeling my face heat. “Is there, or isn’t there a spider in my bedroom?” I asked, my breath dancing behind my ribcage.

Hunter still frowned at my hair, taking another step forward. I took another step backward, careful not to hit the tiles.

“Sly little banshee you are, letting us all believe you were dull-looking.”

“I am dull-looking,” I countered, still worried about the spider.

He shook his head, his gaze sliding from my hair to my eyes.

“What am I going to do with you, aingeal dian?” He wrapped his hands around my neck and face, tilting my head upward.

Watching him watch me felt like being buried alive. Before his eyes landed on me, I’d felt like I was wearing the wrong skin, the wrong face. Because of his gaze, I felt beautiful, and that was seriously addictive.

I took another step back involuntarily. This time my back did hit the tiles with a soft thud.

“We need to stop,” I croaked.

“Stop what?” He feigned innocence, his intense expression turning blank.

“This thing between us. You’re a master at flings. I’m not. I just came here to know if there’s a spider in my room.”

“There isn’t,” he said easily, one of his hands reaching behind me. “And let’s not insult your intelligence by pretending this was about the fucking spider.”

“You’re the one who came up with this scheme,” I reminded him.

I wondered about numbers as his body inched closer to mine, tantalizingly hot and inviting and irresistible.

Number of hearts that perished in the Hunter-storm wake.

Number of times he’d heard the word no and effortlessly turned it into a yes.

Number of tears shed because of this gorgeous creature, who couldn’t help being who he was.

“Aye,” he hissed, pressing me against the tiles now, my chest against his upper belly, our thighs aligned, our mouths almost brushing. “But I’m never above insulting my own intelligence.”

“Hunter Fitzpatrick, what are your intentions with my virtue?” I looked up, asking for the first time in a real, straightforward fashion.

He smirked down at me.

“Funny you should ask, Miss Brennan. I’m afraid I’m going for complete destruction.”

With one swift movement, he turned on the shower spray, soaking us both. I let out a cry, holding on to his body as the cold water pelted my flesh punishingly. I heard his gravelly laugh as he scooped me up and wrapped me around him like I was an octopus, dipping his mouth to mine before I could protest.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I remembered I had friends waiting in the living room, and that one of them was blood-related to the person devouring me in his shower, while we were both fully clothed—me with a red dress and matching heels still on.

It also didn’t escape me that I was making the very same mistake I’d vowed not to make in the living room minutes ago, when Aisling reminded me who her brother was. But I was completely helpless. Captivated under his spell.

“You’re a lobster,” I mumbled into our kiss as his tongue explored the inside of my mouth. My hand found his shaft through his sweatpants and rubbed of its own accord, feeling it swell and jerk. He was my self-medication. My alcohol. My cocaine. My un-prescribed ADHD pill, designed to enhance my emotional performance.

“Is this a Friends reference? Because I’m Gen-Z and not completely immersed in popular nineties culture.” He pushed my panties to the side under my dress, fingering me. I groaned as his fingers met my insides again. My flesh was still sore from him entering me with his fingers and tongue yesterday. But every sore inch of me wrapped against him, squeezing and welcoming him like a vise.

Welcome home.

“Lobsters are nature’s whore. They just have this awesome reputation as monogamous creatures. Which is…stupid. So stupid. They are literally the cockroaches of the ocean,” I blabbed, letting him kiss me while the water pounded on us. He hmmed into my neck, his mouth moving down to my breasts.

“I hate lobsters.” I sighed as his fingers curled in that way that made my insides clench. I was desperate to stay outside the moment, to absorb from afar. “And I hate Friends.”

He stopped devouring me, taking a step back. Water dripped from the tip of his straight, narrow nose. His square, dimpled chin and pouty lips glistened with water. It clung to his eyelashes—he had great lashes, like Zayn Malik—enhancing his ruthless beauty even more.

“Are we okay?” He sloped his chin down. It was we again.

I shook my head. “I know we made a deal, Hunter, but I don’t know if I can do this again.”