My ex.
My fuck buddy.
My friend.
Mygoddamn wife.
She’s been every name in the book.
And I’m supposed to just walk in there and pretend it’s normal to lie beside her and sleep, when all I can think about is how easy it would be to slide my hand under her shirt and make her gasp my name.
I need a release.
And I’m not talking about my hand.
I need to fuck.
And I’m trying really fucking hard not to make that her problem.
I agreed to this. Hell, I suggested it.
Though when I first pitched the idea, not having sex was definitely not part of the plan.
Jordan texts me from the bedroom.
Jordan
Bathroom is yours.
Thanks. Be in soon.
Not that she needs to know.
I stare at my work a minute longer. I’m too exhausted for this.
With a quiet exhale, I push up from my desk and head to my bathroom to brush my teeth.
Jordan’s still there, brushing her teeth like she’s got nowhere else to be.
And she’s wearing the same goddamn sleep outfit she wears every night. The same one she’s been wearing when she passes me in thekitchen, leaning over the counter and pretending not to notice me staring. The same one that’s been giving me a hard-on every morning since she moved in—a white tank top and women’s boxer briefs that are clearly underwear.
She’ll argue that they’re shorts.
They’re not.
She has dozens of each and wears them every night. Has for over a decade.
And this outfit—herpajamas—will be my downfall.
Our eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror the second I walk into the bathroom, and I stop a few feet behind her. She mumbles something through the foam in her mouth.
Don’t know. Don’t really care.
I’m too busy letting my gaze wander over her backside, taking in every curve, every inch of bare skin she’s casually offering me.
She spits and rinses, then stares into the mirror. At me.
“What?” she asks, turning to face me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
