I run a hand through my hair, then pace once across the kitchen, twice. My jaw clenches. My cock’s already half-hard and aching behind my zipper.
I know I should shower. I know I should eat. I know this is wrong.
But I’m already moving.
I drop to my knees beside the sofa like something in me surrendered. My fingers find the scarf—soft, warm, stupidly innocent—and lift it to my face.
The smell hits me like a goddamn freight train.
I groan low in my throat. Harsh. Hungry.
I stand and pace, trying to calm the racing thoughts in my mind. There’s the faintest note of salt, the tang of sweat and heat buried beneath the surface.
It smells like her body. Like skin still flushed from heat, mouth still swollen from kissing. Feminine and dangerous and fucking intoxicating.
My eyes fall shut as it hits me full-force, and my jaw locks tight. My throat works around a dry swallow.
I’m hard in seconds.
My cock throbs behind my zipper, thick and aching, the head already damp with pre-come. I haven’t even touched myself yet, but my body’s already ahead of me—drunk on her scent, chasing something I shouldn’t want.
I move without thinking, like I’m not even in control of my own limbs.
My belt comes undone with a sharp metallic clink. My fingers are clumsy on the zipper, too fast, too eager.
I shove my pants down past my hips along with my boxers, just far enough to let my cock spring free, flushed and heavy against my stomach.
The cold air bites at my skin, but it’s no match for the heat pulsing through me.
I lean back against the edge of the kitchen island, the steel cold against my spine. I spread my legs wide for balance and plant my feet flat on the concrete.
Then I wrap one hand around my cock—firm, desperate—and hold the scarf in the other like it’s sacred.
A guttural groan tears out of me as I stroke once, slow and tight, my fist gliding down the thick length and my thumb pressing into the slick ridge under the head. I’m already so hard it hurts.
I drag the scarf to my nose again, inhale deep enough that it stings the back of my throat. The burn doesn’t stop me. Iwantit to burn.
I want hereverywhere.
In my lungs. On my skin. Under my fucking tongue.
I imagine her mouth first. The shape of her lips parted around a gasp, her tongue wetting her bottom lip, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused as she leaned in close.
I can almost feel the weight of her straddling my lap, her thighs tightening around me as she settles.
She wouldn’t be shy. She’s not that kind of woman.
Wren would be curious. Bold. Starving.
She’d take me in her hand, grip firm and sure, guiding me into her like she’s done it a hundred times in her mind.
Her breath would catch—just for a second—when I stretch her, when she feels how thick I am. But she wouldn’t stop. She’d ride it out. Clench around me like a vise.
She’d grind down slowly, making us both suffer.
I see her so clearly—back arched, hair falling across her eyes, hands planted on my chest as she starts to move. That mouth of hers pulled tight, trying not to make a sound, trying not to beg.
But I’d make her beg.
