Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 17 🌶️

Emersyn

As I step back into the living room, the tray of drinks in hand, my pulse is still doing its little dance. Fowler and Marx look up as I approach, their eyes tracking my movement like magnets.

"Here you go," I say, handing Fowler his refilled glass first.

"Thanks," he says, giving me a nod and a grin that sets my insides fluttering. God, why do I have to find that simple action so damn sexy?

I turn to Marx, extending his drink towards him. Just as he reaches out to take it, my hand wobbles slightly, spilling a small amount of the liquid onto his shirt.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," I stammer, my face turning a shade that could rival a tomato.

Marx glances down at the minor spill and then back up at me. "Don't worry about it," he says calmly, setting his drink on the coffee table. And then, without any hint of hesitation, he pulls his shirt off over his head, revealing a chiseled chest and abs that look like they're carved from stone.

I feel my mouth go dry, and my brain scrambles for words but comes up empty. He tosses the shirt aside and sits back down like it's no big deal. But oh, it's a big deal. A very, very big deal.

"Um, right," I say, finally finding my voice, though it's shaky. I sit back down next to him, feeling like I'm about to burst into flames.

The movie on the screen turns to a particularly terrifying scene, something involving a shadowy figure and a knife. I can't help it—I let out a scream and grab onto Marx's arm, my nails digging into his skin.

Instead of grimacing or pulling away, Marx lets out a low sound, something that's way more pleasure than pain. That noise travels straight to the core of me, and I realize that I've hit my limit.

"Um, I think I'm going to head to bed," I say, standing up abruptly. "I'm really tired."

"Are you sure?" Fowler asks, looking surprised but concerned.

"Yeah," Marx adds, his voice tinged with something I can't quite place, but it makes my stomach do flips. "It's still early."

"Yeah, I'm sure," I manage to say. "I'm just not feeling great. Goodnight, guys."

I make my escape before the tension, now thick enough to cut with a knife, does me in.

I lie in bed for a moment, but my body is on fire. A shower. I need a shower. I need the cold water to temper whatever the hell is happening to me.

I strip out of my clothes quickly and step into the shower, turning the knob to a cooler setting than I usually prefer. For a moment, the chilly water pelting my feverish skin feels like a relief, a sanctuary from the heat that's been building up inside me.

But it doesn't last long.

Despite the cool water cascading down on me, my core remains ablaze. The pressure between my legs, instead of subsiding, seems to be reaching a crescendo, begging, pleading for release. I press my palm against the tiled wall of the shower, my other hand clenching into a fist at my side.

I let out a shaky breath, closing my eyes and trying to reign in my senses. But all I can think of is Marx's low, pleasurable moan and Fowler's teasing whispers against my skin. My thoughts race to places they probably shouldn't, and I'm gripped by a feeling of both urgency and hesitance.

The water continues to flow, indifferent to my inner battle. My breathing grows shallow, erratic. I need to do something, anything, to release this unbearable tension. I bite my lip, contemplating my next move, feeling like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap.