Page 64 of No Good Fight

“Fuck,” I whisper.

The front porch feed stays empty. The driveway feed shows my truck slick with rain. The world outside my house keeps being nothing but wet darkness and motionless trees.

Inside, I’m a goddamn mess.

I lean back against the couch and close my eyes, but that is worse. With the monitors gone, there’s nothing except for Alex on my mind. Every image of her is burned into my memory. Her standing in my kitchen holding a bag of sour gummy worms like she was seconds away from throwing it at my head. Her face when she saw the photograph on my shelf. Her hand on my chest. Her whisper.

You should probably tell me not to do this.

I should have.

No, that’s not true. I was never going to tell her not to kiss me. I was only strong enough to stop after I knew what her mouth felt like when she chose mine.

My hand drops to my thigh. I tell myself to leave it there.

The scanner murmurs again. A dispatcher’s voice breaks through, then fades. My house creaks with rain and wind. Upstairs, Alex doesn’t move.

I slide my hand over the front of my jeans and bite back a groan so rough it burns my throat. The pressure is brutal. Immediate. I should get up, take a cold shower, do push-ups until my arms shake, go outside and stand in the rain like an idiot. Instead, I stay on the couch with my eyes on the monitors and my hand moving, slow and firm, over denim.

I think about her hand in my hair.

Her mouth opening under mine.

The way she looked at me when I told her I wanted to touch her everywhere.

My zipper is loud in the quiet living room. I pause after lowering it, listening hard enough to hear the rainwater running through the gutters. Nothing upstairs. No footsteps. No door. No voice calling for me.

I’m a grown ass man. If I want to take my dick out, I can.

That doesn’t change the fact that I feel like I’m going to get caught any second.

I wrap my hand around myself and exhale through my teeth.

It’s relief and punishment at the same time.

I keep my eyes open because shutting them feels too close to shame. And I’m not ashamed of this. Of what she does to my fraying self control. The monitors glow across my skin, turning my hand and stomach ghost-pale in the room’s dim light. I stroke myself slowly, jaw clenched, breathing controlled through my nose while every filthy, desperate thought I’ve ever had about Alex tries to climb into my head.

Her on this couch, with her shirt up around her waist and my fingers playing with her.

Her in my bed wearing absolutely nothing but a smile.

Her looking up at me with that smart mouth red from mine, telling me exactly what she wants because she finally knows I’ll give it to her.

My hand tightens.

I tip my head back against the couch, the tendons in my neck pulling tight as I fight to stay quiet. I don’t let myself imagine going upstairs. I don’t let myself imagine her vulnerable and half-asleep. Not tonight. Tonight I keep her in my mind the way she was downstairs: awake, choosing, hands on me, eyes clear even through the fear.

That is the only version I will let myself have tonight.

The thought hits harder than it should, and pleasure coils tight at the base of my spine. I move faster, still watching the empty porch feed, still listening for her, still forcing every breath to stay low and contained. My free hand grips the edge of the couch cushion.

“Alex,” I breathe, so quietly there’s no chance my words were heard.

I come with my teeth locked and my eyes open, heat spilling over my hand while the monitors keep showing nothing. No movement outside. No threat at the door. No one getting through the dark to reach her.

My body grows heavy afterward, but the shame doesn’t come the way I expect it to. Not exactly. Wanting Alex isn’t the problem. Walking upstairs because the door might be unlocked would be. Turning her trust into permission she never gave would be.

I sit there with my breathing rough and one hand braced on my thigh, staring at the porch camera until the difference settles into a hard, necessary truth.