I can't.
My mind won't stop replaying the past few days. Kevin making coffee in my kitchen like he belongs there. His arm around my waist at the grocery store, solid and sure. The way he looked at me in the alley after Elliott grabbed me—like he would have torn the world apart to keep me safe.
The low rumble of his voice when he says my name.
Steph.
I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the heat pooling between them.
This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman lying in my own bed, worked up over a man who's sleeping on my couch out of some misguided sense of duty. He's protecting me. That's all this is.
Except it's not.
Because protectors don't call you gorgeous in the dark. They don't kiss your forehead like you're something they've been waiting for their whole life.
They don't look at you the way Kevin looks at me. I'm the only thing in the room that matters, and it’s written all over his face. It’s how all the married men around town look at their wives.
My hand slides down my stomach almost of its own accord.
I should stop, roll over, and force myself to sleep and deal with these feelings in the cold light of morning when I can rationalize them away.
But my body doesn't care about rationalization.
It cares about the memory of Kevin's hand on my cheek in the alley, rough and gentle all at once. The feel of his chest against my side when I fell asleep on the couch. The way his thumb traced patterns on my ankle while we watched TV, absent and intimate and right.
I slip my hand beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts.
This is a bad idea.
But I'm already touching myself, already imagining what it would feel like if that thin wall disappeared. If Kevin walked through my door right now. If those careful, controlled hands that fold blankets and make coffee and handle drunk assholes at the bar touched me the way I've been dreaming about for far too long.
Weeks.
Months, if I'm being honest with myself.
I bite my lip, trying to stay quiet, but a soft sound escapes anyway.
On the other side of the wall, the couch creaks.
I freeze, heart hammering.
Is he awake? Did he hear me?
The apartment goes silent. So silent I can hear my breathing, ragged and too fast.
Then nothing. Just the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside.
I need to stop. Pretend this never happened.
Instead, I close my eyes and let myself imagine.
Kevin's voice in the dark, low and rough. "Tell me what you need, Steph."
His hands on my thighs, pushing them apart. His mouth on my neck, my collarbone, lower.
The weight of him over me, solid and sure and safe.
My fingers move faster, chasing the building heat. I'm close—so close—and I should be quiet, but I can't help the small gasp that escapes when pleasure spikes through me.
