Stupid fucking word.
Now I’m picturing her soaked for me—dripping, open, flushed, and greedy.Her thighs shaking while I bury my face between them until she forgets her own name.
“It’s called grounding,” she says, stepping closer to the railing, a few drops of moisture glistening on her collarbone.Then she licks her lips.Of course she does.“Rain clears the mind.”
“No,” I snap, too fast.“Coffee clears the mind.Silence clears the mind.Not standing barefoot in a goddamn cloud leak.”
She laughs, light and warm and utterly fucking disarming.The sound drifts over the narrow space between our balconies and settles inside me, like she’s slipped past a door I didn’t mean to leave cracked open.I look away—too fast, too obvious.
“I didn’t hear you come out,” she says.
Yeah.That’s ’cause I was trying to avoid it, and when I saw her ...well, my brain short-circuited and wanted to run inside and watch her with a hand wrapped around my dick, while she moved.
What is wrong with you, Alec Dominique Hovarth?You’re losing your shit.
“Yeah,” I mutter, clearing my throat.“Well.I wasn’t aiming to interrupt your ...interpretive rain dance.”
“It’s yoga.”
“Debatable.”
I try not to look.But she’s right there—tank top molding to her like it’s part of her skin, nipples barely visible through the thin fabric.Her leggings cling to every line of her body like they’ve been painted on.She’s barefoot, standing like she belongs to the storm.And the worst part is that I want to be a part of it—soak on it, even drown.
“My yoga happens in a controlled studio at a high temperature with a teacher who knows what he’s doing.”
She narrows her eyes like she knows exactly what I’m doing.And not doing.
“Judgmental,” she chirps.“Plus, you’re extra grumpy this morning.”
That earns her a long stare—one I don’t bother softening.I hope it tells her exactly what’s in my head.Exactly how badly I want to pin her against the glass and fuck her until the sunrise forgets its job.
She tucks a curl behind her ear, and it kills me a little.That small movement.That softness.She studies me with those eyes—those eyes—like she wants to know where it hurts.
“Are you okay?”she asks, voice gentler now.“I mean, you’ve been missing for a few days.Anything I can help you with?”
Yeah.
You could kneel.
You could come over here and crawl into my lap, straddle me, and make me forget why I ever built walls in the first place.
You could stop looking at me like I’m someone worth saving.
You could ruin me, and I’d let you.
I hate the question.I hate that she asks it without expectation or pity.I hate that she sounds like she’d actually care about the answer.And I hate that for a split second, I want to tell her the truth.Not the raw, ugly one—the origin of Alec Hovarth.Nope.I just want to give her the version that ends with her mouth on mine.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Obvious, brittle, and barely passable.
She nods slowly—like she wants to believe me but can’t quite manage it.Her gaze catches on the edges of me, tracing the exhaustion I’m too tired to hide, the tension I’ve been carrying like a second skin.I haven’t breathed properly since the last time this woman looked at me like she does now—curious, concerned, warm enough to burn.
“Do you want tea?”she asks.
“No.”...unless it’s from your mouth.Unless you’re the thing warm enough to soothe whatever the hell’s eating me alive.
“Chamomile lavender is good for calming,” she offers, like she’s got no idea what her voice does to me.“I’ll even pause my practice for you.”
