I almost crossed the line.
I almost ruined everything.
And the worst part?
I still want to.
I still want to wake her up with my mouth on her.
I still want to hear her say my name like that when she's fully conscious.
But I can't.
I won't.
Because if I do, and she doesn't want it the way I do…
I lose her.
And that's the one thing I can't survive.
• • •
Twenty minutes later, I was in the shower with my hand wrapped around my cock.
I tried to make it quick. Clinical. Just release the pressure and move on.
But my mind went straight back to last night.
Her straddling my lap. Lace panties the only thing between us. Her thighs spread wide over mine, weight pressing down on my dick.
I grabbed her ass—pulled her forward, dragged her pussy along my cock. The friction. The heat. Her gasp. Her hands flying to my forearms, gripping tight.
I stroke myself harder, remembering.
How wet she was. I felt it through the lace. Through my sweatpants. How close I came to tearing those panties off her. To flipping her over, pinning her down, and finally—finally—taking what I've wanted for seventeen years.
My hand moves faster.
In my head, I do it. I rip the lace. Slide into her. Feel her tighten around me. Hear her moan my name.
"Drogo—"
I come hard, forehead pressed against the tile, biting back a groan.
When I catch my breath, reality crashes back.
She was just playing. Doesn't mean shit. Right?
I slam my fist against the wall, hating myself.
• • •
My head was pounding like a drum solo gone rogue. Loud noises felt like nails on a chalkboard, and coffee? Coffee was useless—just bitter brown disappointment. Yet here I was, driving to a paintball field with gear in the trunk like some warlord who'd lost the plot.
Last night Alena had fallen asleep with her cheek on my tattoo, breathing steady against my skin. This morning I lefther in my bed, her hoodie still pushed up, one breast exposed to the cold London air.
I should've covered her. I didn't.
