Except I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips.
Still hear the way he said my name right before he lost control.
Still feel the hard length of him pressed against me, the wet heat when he came.
Stop thinking about it. Stop.
Outside, I hear footsteps, then the bedroom door opens.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe normally. Evenly. Like someone who is definitely asleep and definitely not replaying the last twenty minutes on a loop.
The mattress dips as he climbs in on his side.
We lie there in the dark. Maybe two feet between us. Might as well be the Grand Canyon.
Several minutes pass. I focus on keeping my breathing steady. On not moving. On pretending to be unconscious.
Then: "Jane?"
My breath catches. "...Yeah?"
A pause. Long enough that I think he's changed his mind.
Then: "That thing you did with your hips?"
Oh God. Oh no. We're not discussing this. We are not—
"Don't do that with Blake."
The words hang in the dark. Rough. Possessive. Completely at odds with our "professional arrangement."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "West—"
But he's already rolling over, putting his back to me.
End of conversation.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, pulse racing.
He just told me not to do that with Blake.
Not "good job practicing."
Not "that's exactly what you should do."
Don't do that with Blake.
Like he wants to keep it for himself.
I should be worried about the implications. About crossing lines. About making this fake thing complicated.
Instead, all I can think is:
Good.
Because some reckless, chaotic part of me doesn't want to do that with Blake either.
I want to do it with West again.
