That she wanted me to touch her. That when she looked up at me with those big brown eyes, she was feeling even a fraction of what I was feeling.
I stroke myself harder, faster, chasing the release I need before I lose my mind completely. I imagine pulling her back against me after her parents left. Imagine sliding my hand up under that dress, feeling how soft her thighs are. Imagine her making those breathy little sounds right in my ear as I touch her.
Would she be wet for me?
Would she let me find out?
The thought sends me over the edge, and I come with a groan that echoes off the tile, my forehead pressed against the wall, water beating down on my shoulders.
For about thirty seconds, I feel better.
Then the guilt hits.
I just jerked off thinking about my neighbor. My younger, sweet, completely-off-limits neighbor who asked me for help and is probably over there right now thinking I'm a decent guy.
I'm not a decent guy.
A decent guy wouldn't have spent the entire conversation in her kitchen fighting the urge to back her up against the counter and kiss her until she couldn't remember her own name.
A decent guy wouldn't have noticed the way her nipples pressed against the fabric of her dress, or the way she kept biting her bottom lip, or the flush that crept up her neck when our hands touched.
A decent guy wouldn't be counting down the hours until he gets to see her again.
I turn off the water and grab a towel, scrubbing it over my face like I can wipe away the self-loathing.
This is fine.
This is manageable.
I just need to keep my shit together for one dinner. Sit next to her, play the part, don't say anything stupid. Don't touch her more than necessary. Don't let her see how gone I am for her.
Easy.
Except it's not easy, because when I was standing in her kitchen and she asked me questions, normal questions, the kind of thing people ask when they're getting to know each other, I could barely answer.
*What do you do for fun?*
I wanted to say *think about you*. *Watch your lights come on in the evening. Listen for your voice. Memorize the pattern of your days so I know you're safe.*
But I said I read sometimes, because that's true and it's not completely psychotic.
*How long were you a firefighter?*
Twenty-two years. Long enough to see things that still wake me up at night. Long enough to carry bodies out of buildings. Long enough to know exactly how fragile life is and how fast it can be taken away.
Long enough to know I should stay the hell away from her because I'm damaged goods and she deserves better.
But she didn't ask for better.
She asked for me.
I get dressed in clean jeans and a dark button-up shirt that I'm pretty sure I bought five years ago and have worn exactly twice. It's the nicest thing I own that isn't a suit from a funeral.
I look at myself in the mirror.
The scars on my arms are still visible below the rolled-up sleeves. There's nothing I can do about that. Nothing I can do about the gray in my hair or the lines around my eyes or the fact that I look every day of forty-three years old.
This is what she's getting.
