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"God, your hands," she breathes, looking down her wet body to see what she's doing. "Do you know how long I've—the veins, the size of them—"

Her hips keep moving, rocking back and forth over my palm like she's chasing something she's been denied for years.

"Take what you need," I grunt, staring at her.

The motion is hypnotic, her wet pussy sliding against my fingers, my own come mixed with hers making everything slick. I watch the muscles in her thighs flex with each pass. The way her breasts bounce beneath the spray. Her face changing when she hits exactly the right angle.

Fuck.

She's so beautiful like this. Greedy. Completely unashamed of how badly she wants to come on my hand.

The water streams over her shoulders, catching in the hollow of her throat, tracing down between her tits before disappearing into the space where my fingers disappear inside her.

I want to lick every drop. To taste the evidence of what I've done to her.

But she's not done using me yet.

I keep my hand exactly where she put it, letting her take everything she needs, because watching Audrey Fields fuck herself on my fingers might be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"That's it, sweetheart. Look at you. Using me. You know exactly what you want now, don't you."

"Yes."

"Then take it. Take me. Every piece."

"Oh, Miles."

She grinds harder, my fingers curling inside her, and I keep my hand steady and let her control everything while I sit there completely transfixed.

This gorgeous, dripping, shameless woman is the same person who a fiancé once called cold. Now she's riding my hand under a fucking rainfall shower like it was always a lie, she just needed to prove it.

"Miles—I'm—"

"Eyes on me when you come."

She comes around my fingers staring directly into my eyes, her whole body shaking against my palm.

I hold her through the aftershocks, kiss her wet temple, her cheek, her mouth.

"See," I say quietly. "You were never the problem."

"I know," she says, still breathless, still gorgeous.

Afterward, I wrap her in a heated towel the size of a bedsheet, carry her to the poolside lounger, and feed her a chocolate-dipped strawberry from the recovery platter that was meant for me.

I don't mind.

She curls into my side, and we watch the snow fall past the glass while the market slowly closes up for the night.

Her fingers trace the tape she's wrapped around my bruised hand.

"So," she says softly. "Ottawa. Is this all becoming real?"

I take a breath and sigh.

Because the scout's card is in my coat, six feet away. The meeting is tomorrow night, after the sponsor dinner, and I open my mouth to tell her—

And then, I see it all play out. Exactly like it has before.