His eyes darken. “Too late for that, sugar.”
I take another step back. “I’ll see you later, Will.”
And then I walk away.
14
I toss and turn all night, sheets twisted around my legs, his kiss still burned into my lips. Sleep won’t come. Finally, I throw off the bedding and pad into the kitchen, hoping water will wash away the heat simmering under my skin. But as I pass the living room window, something catches my eye, and any hope of peace dies instantly.
Will. Across the street. On his couch. Shirtless. Head tipped back. One hand resting behind his neck. The other—oh my. My breath catches. His jeans are undone, and he looks like he’s just run a hand through his hair. Like he’s either coming down from something or trying not to give in to it.
My fingers tighten around the glass.
These feelings for him? They’re no longer whispers in the background. They’re thunder. They’re wildfire. I think of him when I don’t want to. I crave him when I try to forget.
And now, watching him like this, alone and raw in the glow of a single lamp… it’s too much.
I should look away.
I don’t.
I can’t take it anymore.
Not the ache. Not the pulse between my thighs. Not the way Will looks across the street, like sin and temptation and everything I’ve spent years trying to ignore.
My hand trembles as I set the glass down.
I don’t go back to bed.
Instead, I sink into my couch, still facing the window, still watching him. I prop my feet on the coffee table and spread my legs, my breath tight in my chest. He shifts, dragging a hand down his stomach, and my whole body responds like he’s touching me.
I press my thighs together, pulse hammering. The silence in the apartment is deafening. Just the tick of the clock and the faint sound of wind through the trees outside.
My hand slips beneath the hem of my tank top, grazing bare skin. I close my eyes for a second, just to breathe, but then I open them again.
He’s still there.
Still spread out like a goddamn fever dream. Still wrecking me without even trying.
I let my head fall back against the cushion as my fingers slide lower, breath stuttering. It feels wicked. Desperate. Honest. Like giving in to something I’ve denied for too long.
My eyes don’t leave him.
Because even if he never touches me again, this moment? It’s his.
My fingers dip beneath the band of my shorts just as the buzz of my phone slices through the silence.
I freeze. Heart pounding. His name glows on the screen like a dare. I hesitate for half a second, then swipe to answer with breathless fingers. I don’t even say hello.
“Phern,” he says. “Are you watching me?”
A pause. I exhale slowly, fingers still trembling. “Yes.”
There’s a silence so thick I could drown in it.
“Jesus.” The sound is a growl. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
“Probably the same thing it’s doing to me.”
