The second I closed her door behind me this morning, leaving the soft warmth of her house behind, I felt it—the ache that comes from being too close and not close enough.
Her skin had been impossibly soft under my hands, the pink flush along her cheeks and neck matching the warmth I felt spread through me.
Her lips had been wet and trembling as she muttered complaints about feeling hot, feeling sick, and then the sight of her—the damn pink panties, the tightness of her body pressed against mine for just a second—had burned itself into my memory.
I’d had to clamp down, grind my teeth, and sit on the edge of my own control like some kind of monk with a secret that could ruin me.
She’d been a storm, clambering into my lap as if I was the only safe place left in the world. The way she had curledtoward me, whispering incoherently about dreams and the three of us (me, Dorian, and Jude) fucking her… and then her stupid solutions for heartbreak.
It had been pure torture listening to her talk about how I should try to fuck Dorian out of her system… and all I could do was watch and breathe.
I knew she was drunk. I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch her.
But my body hadn’t received the memo.
My chest ached with desire and frustration, my hands fisted into my jeans as I endured every word she muttered in feverish, slurred tones.
I slept on the end of the bed last night, every muscle taut, my pulse racing every time she shifted.
I forced myself to breathe slowly, to tell myself that I was patient, that she needed care more than attention. But my mind refused to let go.
Even then, I could feel it—every curve, every freckle, the subtle shift of her body as she tried to get comfortable, and the pink of her lips, the faint heat of her skin radiating toward me.
Now, back home, the shower running hot behind me, I’m gripping the memory like it’s a lifeline. I can still feel her hair tickling my shoulder, the warmth of her knees pressed briefly against my thighs, the sound of her voice, soft and unsure, hiccupping around the edges of her words.
It twists something low and dangerous inside me, a coil of frustration and need that I can’t unravel.
She’s so fucking pretty, every little freckle, the way her body moves, the way it presses into mine even when she doesn’t mean to. My chest tightens just remembering it.
And yet, there’s this ache—this gnawing frustration. I’ve never been this torn up in my life, not like this. Not from anyone. I’m used to control, used to patience, used to holding back. But she… she shreds all that.
She makes me want things I can’t take, makes me ache for things I shouldn’t even imagine.
But I let my imagination run, filling in the gaps, because reality is merciless. I picture her in my arms, fevered and warm, every curve alive under my hands, freckles scattered like stars along her skin, lips parted, vulnerable, calling something only I could hear.
I can feel the pull of her, the low, magnetic tug of everything about her that is impossible to resist. I can almost smell her.
The ache runs down low in my chest and gut, and it makes me want to call her, touch her, demand her presence, but I can’t. I’d lose all the control I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours clawing to keep.
I take a deep breath, eyes closing, letting the tension roll over me in waves. The memory is vivid, intoxicating—her shifting closer in a feverish haze, the tightness of her body against mine, the soft weight of her leaning into me like she belonged.
She doesn’t. She belongs in her house, alive and oblivious to the storm she leaves behind in me.
And still, my pulse races just thinking about the way she practically climbed onto me, how helpless and human she was, how breathtakingly imperfect.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the heat, trying to remind myself of patience. I’m an Alpha. I hold back. I control.
But she is a force of nature, and last night’s memory has left me undone. Every heartbeat, every muscle twitch, every memory of her warmth, her vulnerability, her pink flush, twists me inside in a way I’ve never experienced.
I open my eyes, exhale, and lean against the wall, knowing I have to survive the rest of the day without losing myself entirely to these thoughts.
The ache remains, humming low and insistent, a reminder that she’s out there, oblivious, and I’m left to wrestle with the storm she’s left behind in me.
I step out of the shower and let the warm water linger on my skin longer than I should. I ignore my hard cock, toweling off and pulling on jeans and a flannel. The shirt goes on loose, covering most of me.
I head next door to Jude and Maisie. Rufus is sprawled in front of the fireplace, chest rising and falling in a deep sleep.
The fire flickers and warms the room, and my gaze lands on Maisie staring at a sheet of paper. Huge letters are written across it. Jude’s standing across from her, and she’s squinting, trying to make sense of the shapes.
