I run.
Inside, Dad asks why my face is all red. I mumble something about the ovens at Pizza Fiesta.
I get to my room, close the door, and press my back to it—hard—because my legs feel like they might give out.
My body is buzzing. Literally—alive, awake, aching in places I didn’t even know could hurt.
I can still feel him in the air around me. The way his breath brushed my lips. The way he stopped like he was physically restraining himself from devouring me.
God.
I press my palm to my sternum, but the pounding is lower. Deeper. A slow, throbbing heat nestled right between my thighs, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
"Jordan," I whisper his name in the dark. It makes the ache worse.
I stumble to my bed and sink down. My hands shake as I tug my uniform T-shirt over my head. My skin is too hot, too sensitive, every nerve ending remembering the exact moment he almost kissed me.
His voice—low, rough, reverent—won’t leave my head.
I want everything. Eventually.
My thighs press together. A delicious heat sparks between my legs. It's not enough.
I lie back, my heart racing as I slide my hand down my stomach. I’ve touched myself before. But not like this.
Not with this desperate, unbearable need.
I imagine his hand instead of mine—warm, calloused, big. I imagine the way he’d look at me. The way he’d say my name.
Baby.
My breath catches. My hips lift into my own touch.
My back arches. My thighs shake. Heat curls low and deep, tightening with every pass of my fingers.
"Jordan," I moan.
I picture his mouth hovering over mine. His breath mingling with mine. Him forcing himself to stop when everything in me wanted him to keep going.
Pleasure jolts through me, fast and bright.
I bite my lip, trying to stay silent, but my hips keep moving, chasing the feeling building under my skin like a wave rising too fast to outrun.
My hand grips the sheets. My legs tremble. The pressure builds—sharp, sweet, unbearable—
And then I fall.
My body breaks open with a soft, strangled cry, heat pouring through me in slow, rolling waves. My toes curl. My breath saws through my lips. Everything inside me tightens, clenches, releases—ecstasy blooming so powerfully tears prick my eyes.
I lie there shaking, breathless, heart thundering.
I’ve never felt anything like that. And the worst—or maybe the most dangerous—part?
It wasn’t me that did it. Not really. It was him. His voice. His breath. The way he looked at my lips like he was starving.
And even though I know I shouldn’t—I want more. So much more.
5
