I could hear her shifting on the other side of the door. The rustle of denim. The slide of skin against fabric.
"And if I nodded?" she breathed.
"I’d close the gap. Slow. Letting you track me. I’d kneel down, right in front of you. Eye level. I wouldn't touch. Not yet." I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "I’d ask before I touched. I’d start with your wrist, yeah? Right over that fox-tail ink. Kiss, then wait."
A ragged exhale from her side. "Then?"
"Then I’d listen. I’d listen to your heart rate. If it’s too fast, I stop. If you want more..." I dragged a hand through my own hair, fist tightening in the blonde curls. "I’d ask: Closer or quieter?"
"Closer," she gasped through the door. Immediate. Desperate.
The word sent a jolt of heat straight to my groin. I pressed my forehead harder against the frame until it hurt.
"Copy closer," I murmured, letting the fantasy take the wheel. "I’d slide my hands up your arms. Under the sleeves of that big hoodie you wear. Skin to skin. My thumbs pressing into the inside of your elbows. I’d map you, Z. Every pulse point."
"And then?"
"Then I'd lean in. I'd put my nose right against the curve of your neck. Where the scent lives. I wouldn't bite. I'd just breathe. I'd breathe you in until I was drunk on it."
I heard a sound, a wet, slick sound. A gasp that shuttered into a moan.
She was touching herself. To my voice. To the ghost of my hands.
I groaned, the sound ripping out of my chest before I could stop it. My own scent flared, scorching the air in the hallway, thick caramel and burning ozone.
"I’d move one hand down," I whispered, reckless now, starving. "Over your ribs. Counting them. Making sure you're breathing. My hand flat on your stomach, feeling the heat coming off you."
"Alfie," she whimpered.
"Yeah. Just there. I’d ask again. 'Can I go lower?' And I'd watch your eyes. I'd copy your ‘no’ like gospel. But if you said yes..."
"Yes," she choked out. "Yes."
"I'd find the button of your jeans. Pop it. Slow. Torture slow. I'd slide my hand down, past the denim, past the silk. I'd find where you're wet for me."
The sound from the other side of the door broke me. A high, keen cry, followed by the frantic rhythm of movement. She wasn't just touching herself; she was unraveling.
I sat there in the hallway, fully hard, aching so bad I thought I might actually die from it, and I didn't touch the doorknob. I gripped my own knees. I let the burnt sugar pour off me, rolling under the gap in the door to wrap around her.
"I'd play you like a track, love," I growled, leaning into the wood like it was her skin. "I'd find the frequency. I wouldn't stop asking. 'Good?' 'Here?' 'Harder?' I'd make you answer me every time."
"Harder," she sobbed.
"Copy harder. I'd use my thumb. I'd wreck you with it. I'd watch you come apart and I'd catch every piece of you. I wouldn't look away. Not for a second."
"Alfie," she cried out, my name shattering into falsetto. "Alfie, please."
"Come for me, fox," I whispered against the door. "Let go. You're safe. I'm right here. I'm the wall. I'm the furniture. I've got you."
She screamed. It was a muffled, broken sound, abruptly cut off as she likely bit into her own hand or arm to stifle it. Then came the aftershocks, the ragged, sobbing breaths of a crash.
I slumped back against the wall, chest heaving, sweat trickling down my temples. I felt like I'd run a marathon. My blood sang with adrenaline and frustrated desire, but beneath it, a fierce, golden pride bloomed.
She felt safe enough to break.
Down the hall, movement caught my eye.
Euan was standing at the junction of the T-intersection, back to us, arms crossed, staring down the length of the corridor with the intensity of a security camera. He was blocking the sightline.
