Then why the fuck did she kiss me like that? She kissed me, not the other way around.
I kick the duvet off. The cold air smacks my skin, but it doesn’t help. I’m still rock-hard, straining against my boxers like a teenager. Every heartbeat rushes south.
I make my way into the bathroom and lock the door. Without waiting for it to heat up, I turn the shower on and brave the punishing torrent.
When I shut my eyes, she’s there. Her nails digging into my scalp, tits pressing against my torso – firm enough to feel her peaks through the bulk of her hoodie… My hand drops, wrapping firmly around my dick, and I let out a frustrated groan.
It’s been over a year since I’ve been with a woman. The life of a pro athlete: too knackered for swiping, too cynical for romance. My right hand and I have a long-standing arrangement, but it’s never been this desperate. It’s never been…her.
And now I have to use my left.
I slap my palm against the tiles and start working myself, taking it slow. I know I should stop, will my brain to picture literally anyone else, but all I see is her pretty face, how she’d look taking my cock. I think about reaching between her thighs, finding her dripping for me. I’d make her beg while I push my middle and index fingers inside her, curling upward until her knees give out.
I’m a bastard for this.
My hips snap forward, fucking my own fist, and a guttural sound tears out of me. I imagine dropping to my knees for her, eating her out until she’s sobbing and yanking my hair so hard it hurts. I think about her lush, wet mouth wrapped around my cock, and I’m done. I’m so fucking done.
Fuck. Ava. Fuck.
I come with a pained grunt, my whole body bowing under the heave of it. My hips jerk – once, twice, a third time, and the sound that tears out of me is barely human. When it passes, I’m propped against the tiles, water drumming into my nape.
It’s not relief. Not nearly enough. But I needed to do something, or I was going to lose my fucking mind.
Right. Sorted. Pack it away. Be the friend she needs.
I turn the shower off, snatch a towel, and scrub my skin until it’s pink, as if I can rub the want out of the pores.
* * *
As I head downstairs fifteen minutes later, the kitchen is a battlefield of toast crumbs and sibling warfare. It’s loud, chaotic, and precisely what I don’t need.
Ava’s sitting at the table. When I walk in, her gaze snags on mine. There’s a flicker of uncertainty, but she covers it quickly.
How the fuck are we supposed to do this? Last night, we were all over each other. Ten minutes ago, I was tossing off to the memory. Now I’m meant to ask how she slept?
‘Morning.’ Ideally, my voice would be a calm baritone. In reality, it’s a gravelly grind of pebbles in a blender.
I move to the sink without so much as a look at her. I can’t. If I do, I’ll see the mouth I was thinking about in the shower, and the guilt will fucking gut me.
I pour myself a tea and burn my tongue on the first sip. Ava is talking to Mum about the coffee machine, and the sound of her laugh winds me square in the solar plexus.
You can’t stand here all day pretending to read the nutritional info on a cereal box, you gutless wee shite. Do something useful.
‘Eat up, Ava.’ I swipe an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘We’re heading out.’
Her mug halts an inch from her mouth. ‘Heading out? Where? Why?’
‘To get you out of this madhouse. Get your coat. We’re leaving in five.’ I don’t tell her what I’ve organised. Not yet.
‘Is this voluntary, or should I blink twice for help?’
‘Distraction strategy.’ I lean against the fridge, arms crossed. ‘Don’t overthink it. Fresh air. Shoes. Let’s go.’
And keeping us in public where I can’t touch you.
I don’t say that part. I need wind, crowds, and exhaustion. I need a goddamn containment strategy.
* * *
