Those long, roughened fingers curling slowly around my hand under the table.
My body remembered the moment before my brain did. Heat pooled low in my stomach, a slow, traitorous ache. I rolled onto my side, pulled the blankets up, pressed my knees together like that could smother the feeling.
It didn’t.
It only made it worse.
I should’ve stopped myself. I should’ve shoved these thoughts down the way I always did. But the harder I tried, the clearer it became, I wanted the way he looked at me. I wanted the steadiness in his voice, the warmth of him beside me.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, my hand slid down my stomach beneath the sheet.
A soft exhale escaped my lips.
I closed my eyes and let the memory take shape.
Wyatt’s hand finding mine first—firm, warm, certain.
His thumb brushing the inside of my wrist like he was memorizing my pulse.
That low breath I’d felt more than heard when I didn’t pull away.
My fingers slipped lower, parting myself gently, the first touch sending a tightening shiver through me. A small, surprised sound escaped me, softer than a whisper.
I imagined him sitting beside me on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Not touching yet—just close enough that I could feel the heat of him along my back. Close enough that the room itself felt smaller with him in it.
My breath hitched. My fingers moved again, slow circles, the kind that made my thighs tense.
I exhaled his name before I could stop it, barely audible in the dark.
My hips lifted slightly, chasing the pressure. I bit my bottom lip, trying to stay quiet, but it was impossible when the fantasy sharpened.
Wyatt leaning down behind me.
His breath warm against my shoulder.
His voice low in my ear, the way I imagined it would be when he was losing control.
“Tessa.”
Just hearing it in my own mind made everything inside me tighten.
My fingers moved faster, small strokes that built heat with every breath. The tension coiled deep, the slow kind that spread upward, through my chest, into my throat.
I imagined his hand covering mine, guiding me.
The weight of it, the steadiness. The way he’d kiss the back of my shoulder first, not rushing, just learning me. How he’d murmur something quiet, something that made my whole body soften.
Another small sound slipped out of me, muffled by the pillow.
My breathing grew unsteady. My thighs shook faintly. The pleasure built quicker now, sharp and trembling around the edges, curling tight like a pulled thread.
“Wyatt…” Barely a breath.
The tension snapped.
Heat rushed through me, wave after wave, quiet but overwhelming. My body arched, my hand stilling against the ache as I came undone, soft and shaking, breath shuddering out of me into the dark.
When it passed, I lay still for a long moment, my heart slowing, the night air cooling the flush on my skin.
