Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 70

I’m standing in front of Xander’s open fridge, staring into the sad little wasteland of it. Several bottles of water. Half a carton of eggs. Some lonely containers shoved into the back that I’m not about to investigate. My lips curl before I even realize it.

I turn toward him where he is at the counter, dumping protein powder into a blender with intense focus.

“This,” I say flatly, “is the most depressing fridge I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

He glances up, one brow lifted. He’s not even offended....just smug. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?” I step back so he can see for himself.

He just smirks, reaches into a drawer, and pulls out a box of cornflakes and two bowls. Like that somehow redeems him. Then he ducks past me to snag the milk, balancing it on his hip as he nods at the eggs.

“I could scramble some up for you. Cornflakes, eggs, milk....that sounds like a solid breakfast. Balanced. Healthy.”

I shut both fridge doors at once, like I’m putting it out of its misery, and cross my arms. “I think my attraction to you is nosediving by the second.”

His lips curve. Walking back to his damn shake. “Dramatic much?”

“You’re trying to seduce me with cereal.”

“I offered eggs.”

“Even worse.”

He shakes his head, still half-focused on his blender, pouring in the milk. “Fine. What do you want then? I’ll DoorDash you anything. Name it.”

I pull my phone from my pocket, glance at the time. It’s early. Perfect.

“Go get ready."

He pauses mid-pour, frowning. “For what?”

“We’re going to the farmer’s market.”

He blinks at me like I’ve announced we’re joining a knitting circle. “The farmer’s market?”

“Yeah.” I slide my phone away and lean against the counter. “Fresh bread. Real fruit. Vegetables that haven’t been frozen to hell and back.”

His jaw actually drops a little. He looks from me to the fridge, then back again, as if I’ve personally insulted his life choices.

Then he shakes his head at me, muttering like I'm the unreasonable one here.

“Those things’ll just rot away here. You know I’m never gonna actually cook anything.”

I let out a low sound...half a scoff, half a laugh, and drag a hand across my jaw. “Yeah. I know. Wouldn’t do that to the poor ingredients.”

My eyes cut to him, narrowing just enough to press. “We’ll just get enough for me to cook today. That’s it. Unless…” I tip my head slightly, hold his gaze like a dare. “You’d rather stay here? I can go alone.”

He cuts in before I even finish, smoothie half-forgotten on the counter.

“I’ll go.”

It comes out quick, almost too quick, and I catch the flicker of eagerness across his face before he clears his throat like he’s trying to reel it back in. “I mean… I’ve never been to a farmer’s market before. Kinda curious. And I need a haircut anyway, so… killing two birds.”

That makes my mouth twitch...not a smile, not quite...but I push off the counter and start toward him, slow. Each step measured. I don’t stop until I’m right there.

My voice drops, rougher, lower.

“They don’t offer haircuts at the market.”

His scoff is quick, defensive, but his eyes dart to mine before sliding away again. “Smartass.” He shakes his head, and those strands fall loose across his forehead. My gaze tracks them, heat sparking somewhere stupid and dangerous. My fingers twitch against my thigh like they’re itching to push them back.

“I’ll cut it for you,” I murmur, letting it sit there, quiet but weighted.

His brows lift, that sharp Xander skepticism sliding into place. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. You’d probably butcher it on purpose just to keep other guys from looking at me.”

That earns him a look from me....sharp, steady. I lean in a fraction, enough for him to feel the shift in the air. His shoulders tighten, and his throat works as he swallows. I can see the beat of it pulse at his neck.

“Careful,” I say, “You’re giving me ideas.”

He doesn’t move back right away. His eyes flick down to my mouth, just for a second, but it’s enough to gut me.

I want him. And he knows it.

Then he steps back, slow like it costs him something, and exhales sharp through his nose. “You’re not getting anywhere near my hair with anything sharp,” he says, dry but rougher than before. He points toward the hallway without quite meeting my eyes. “I’m gonna go get ready.”

I watch the back of him as he walks away, shoulders squared like he’s unfazed. But there’s a tightness in the set of his spine.

I give myself ten minutes before following behind him. The second I step into the bedroom, I hear it....the rush of water behind the washroom door.

My brain tells me to walk back out, grab a smoke, anything to avoid the images that immediately ambush me. But they come anyway. Him. Naked. Water streaming down his chest, catching in the grooves of his abs, sliding lower. Skin flushed hot under steam, hair dripping wet, lips parted like he’s waiting for me to pin him against the shower walls.

I squeeze my eyes shut and mutter a curse under my breath. How does he manage this? How the fuck does he crawl so deep under my skin that even the sound of a goddamn faucet is enough to hijack my body? It’s sick. I feel like a fiend.

I'm an addict twitching for a hit.

I try to reason, to shove a little discipline into my bones.

But my body doesn’t listen. It never does when he’s involved. My cock has its own set of rules and right now it’s driving. Every muscle in me strains forward, like I’m already leaning into him. My legs betray me, steering me toward the washroom door. I press my forehead against the door like a lunatic, heart pounding.

Eventually, I give in walk into the room. I step closer to the shower, the glass walls translucent enough to blur him but clear enough for my imagination to rip itself to pieces. Steam hangs thick in the air, curling around him, clinging to the way his body moves under the water. It smells like him...clean, sharp, impossibly addictive....and I want to shove my face into it, inhale until I’m drunk on it.

My heart’s pounding like a drum. I yank off my sweats, leaving myself bare. I’m already thinking about him in ways that would make most people squirm.

He’s facing the other way, head tipped back under the spray, water tracing down to the hollow of his back. It’s unreal, how he makes simple anatomy look like something criminal. My cock tightens, already hardening with pure reflex.

I slide the glass door open, slow, careful enough to hear the faint hiss of escaping steam. And like some instinct, some sixth sense, his hands drop from his hair. He doesn’t turn fully, just tilts his head enough to meet me with a partial profile. Then, slow and almost casual, he reaches out and shuts off the water.

I let my eyes roam, let them feast. My mind races, unholy thoughts bleeding into fantasies I’d normally choke back. Fingers tracing, teeth grazing, hands pressed into every inch I can reach....

And then he slowly turns, he knows I’m watching, he wants me to. My gaze travels the length of him again, memorizing.

I reach his eyes finally, expecting him to glare, pretend to be angry, force himself to throw me out. But his gaze is doing its own exploration, sharp and pinned on one thing. My cock twitches, loving the attention. There's a slight arrogance in the way he looks at me, like he knows the control I’ve barely been holding. I can feel it in the air, in the charge between us, thick and wet and hungry.

I want him. I want all of him. Every goddamn inch. And judging by the way his pupils have blown wide, he wants me too.