I just came on Struan Walker’s lap.
I’m still thrumming all over, nerves buzzing with the aftershocks. A shaky laugh escapes me—half disbelief, half pure mortification.
What the hell was that? One minute I was strumming a wobbly G chord, the next I was grinding against him like my life depended on it. Dignity? Nowhere to be found.
Okay. Breathe. Think.
It was just a release. That’s all. The last few weeks have been chaos—the move, getting the salon up and running, Lily’s tantrums. My body’s been running on caffeine and cortisol for God knows how long. Throw in a bit of weed, something I haven’t touched in years, plus Struan’s hand guiding mine on the guitar, and... well, any warm-blooded woman would’ve reacted the way I did. Perfectly explainable. Completely physiological.
I push off from the door, fill a glass at the tap, and gulp half of it down. It does nothing to wash away the taste of Struan—or the memory of him that still clings to me everywhere else.
I close my eyes and take a few steadying breaths.
No use.
My head’s already replaying it—his grip on my arse, the solid weight of him beneath me, his erection pressed tight against me, the way he’d met every roll of my body as if he couldn’t help himself.
My stomach flips.
I left him sitting there. With amassivehard-on straining against his jeans.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, tipping the rest of the water into the sink. Enough. Bed.
Upstairs, I plug in my phone and go through the motions—wash my face, brush my teeth, slap on moisturiser—all on autopilot. Every few seconds, another flash: the look on his face when I moved against him. The way his fingers dug into my arse, pulling me closer, harder, the pressure building?—
My body hums with the echo of it.
When I unhook my bra, my nipples are still embarrassingly hard. Nothing to do with the cold: the radiator’s humming away. I tug off my knickers, then pause, staring.
Soaked. Of course they are.
I shove them and the rest of my clothes into the wash basket then pull on my PJs—the unsexy flannel ones, as if that’ll somehow reset my brain.
I plump my pillows. Crawl under the duvet. It’s late, I’m exhausted, and I really,reallyneed to sleep.
But now I’m thinking about his bed. On the other side of this wall.
Is he in it? Is he lying there right now, still hard, replaying what happened? That erection of his definitely needed seeing to. There’s no way he’s just gone to sleep.
A vivid image flashes in my head—Struan sprawled across his rumpled sheets, tawny curls tousled and damp, his handwrapped tight around his hard cock. Pumping up and down, slow at first, then faster—gripping harder, hips arching into his fist.
Maybe he’d bite his lip to muffle a groan. Maybe he’d tense just before he came, every muscle drawn tight beneath sweat-soaked skin...
The ache between my legs, barely dulled from earlier, spikes hot and insistent, as if the memory alone is enough to pull me under all over again.
No, stop it, Ainsley!
I squeeze my eyes shut and roll onto my stomach, but the throb at my core only intensifies. Bloody hell. This is ridiculous. I literally came fifteen minutes ago.
For what feels like hours, I toss and turn, eventually giving up and glaring at the ceiling.
For God’s sake, Ainsley. You have a business to run. You do not have time to be lusting after your joiner-slash-neighbour.
But no matter how much I berate myself, the heat keeps rushing back.
His hands. His mouth. The way he’d looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
My phone buzzes on my bedside table. Who the hell is contacting me at 12:58 a.m.?
