I’d fuck it out of her—every shaky breath, every whispered curse, every whimper she doesn’t want me to hear.
She doesn’t even know. Doesn’t realize what she’s doing to me.
But I do.
I see every goddamn inch of her. The twitch in her lashes when I pressed the stethoscope to her bare skin. That wild, aching defiance that clings to her like sweat.
She’s not delicate. She’s dangerous.
And I want her anyway.
My hand pumps faster, tighter, slick with need. The scarf is wrapped around my knuckles now, fisted like a leash, and I hold it close to my face as I fuck into my grip. Each stroke sends a jolt through my spine.
I’m panting. Cursing under my breath. My hips jerk up in time with each pull of my fist.
The air is filled with the wet sound of skin on skin, the scrape of my breathing, the low groan that rips from my chest when I imagine her clenching around me.
Hot. Wet. So, fucking tight I’d lose every ounce of control I have.
Her thighs would tremble. Her body would shake. She’d dig her nails into my back, anchoring herself while I thrust up into her, deep and rough, giving her everything.
She’d moan my name like she’s not afraid of what it means. Like it belongs to her.
“Simon… don’t stop.”
Fuck.
That does it.
My whole body locks up, muscles drawn tight like wire. My hips snap forward, and I come with a raw, helpless gasp. Thick pulses spill over my hand, my wrist, across the fabric of her scarf. My vision whites out at the edges.
My head drops back as I ride the wave, thighs shaking, cock jerking with each release until there’s nothing left but the heavy thud of my heartbeat and the ache in my spine.
The scarf slips from my fingers, drifting to the floor in a soft, humiliating flutter.
I stare down at the mess—at my slick-covered hand, my softening cock, the ruined scarf. My shame hits cold and fast.
This isn’t who I am. I’m not this man. I’ve built my entire fucking life on precision. On discipline. On restraint.
And now here I am—panting in my kitchen, pants around my thighs, broken open by the ghost of a woman’s scent.
And the worst part?
I already know I’ll do it again because her name keeps ricocheting through my head.
Marissa said I didn’t know how to want. But if she saw me now, would she call this want or just weakness?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wren
The first thingI smell is hyacinth.
Then comes the soft thud of the door hitting the bell chime, followed by a familiar voice calling my name like a question and a smile all at once.
“Wren?”
I wipe my hands on a damp rag and come out from the back, still in my paint-streaked overalls and with a streak of charcoal primer on my cheek, I’m sure. The scent of dust and wood polish still clings to the air.
