But she might not be here. And I shouldn't care about that.
I peer into the hangout space. Nothing.
I peek into Ruthie's room, and still—no one's there.
When I get to her door, I'm torn between busting it down and not wanting to see the room empty inside. Swallowing my worry, I lift my fist to knock but freeze instead when a dull hum floats underneath the threshold.
"What?" I whisper so quietly it's barely audible. I tilt my head, mostly out of confusion, but as my ear moves closer to the door, the sound grows louder.
I rack my brain for what it could be—her cell phone, an electric toothbrush? But before I can decide, a breathy moan is tossed into the mix.
Holy shit.
All of my blood rushes south, the ice pack at my ankle the only part of me not suddenly hot. And I stay there. Frozen. Listening to the faint vibration and the heavy breaths that mingle with it like the beautiful symphony that it is.
Without even realizing it, I find myself resting my forearm on the doorframe, my forehead pressed against the cool wood to groundme—or keep me upright. Relief attempts to flood my system—she's here. But it surfaces as something worse than the panic I was feeling. It soars back with crippling want and need.
I grow instantly hard. Just the thought of what Tessa is doing on the other side is enough to drive me crazy. I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about those sounds escaping her perfect lips—picture what she'd look like sprawled out on a bed in front of me.
But those thoughts are for my fantasies. Where I'm always with her.
On instinct, my free hand drifts toward the knob, prepared to run to her. To drop to my knees and tell her with anything but words how much I want her—all of her. And how much I don't really fucking care that I shouldn't.
But I pull back the second I get close enough to grab it.
What am I doing?
I ball my hand so tight, my forearm aches more than it already was from the game. I can't do this. I shouldn't. It's not right. And it's not at all what's supposed to happen.
With my fist and jaw both clenched, I roll off of the door frame and turn back toward my bedroom. I get there in just three soft strides and step inside, pressing the door closed quietly enough to put even more of a barrier between us.
Standing there, I press my palm against my jeans, hoping to ease the ache building where it hasn't in so long.I don't even remember what it feels like to be this hard.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I pace the length of my room, trying to decide what I do now. I can't act on this. But I can't ignore it either. I dip into my bathroom, bracing myself on the sink and hanging my head between my arms. Splashing some cold water—everywhere—might be the only thing that helps.
But then the buzzing starts again.
For a second, I think I'm imagining it—that my brain is torturing me with the reminder of what I know Tessa's doing right next door to me. But as my grip grows tighter around the white porcelain in my hands, it hits me.
My head rolls toward my navy blue towel hanging off its hook on the wall—the same wall that separates Tess's room from mine. I twist toward it, my feet moving before I can stop them. As I pin my ear to the drywall, the same panting from earlier greets me and brings with it that same heat below my belt.
I know I should leave it. I should force myself to bed, shove a pillow over my head, and pretend this never happened. Even relieving myself to the image feels like dangerous territory—one I'll never want to leave. But God damn it—I also need more of her.
Just like I always do.
Before I realize what I'm doing, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, scrolling to her number. I hit the call button before I can talk myself out of it, and snap the phone to my ear, adrenaline rushing through me like it never has before. A gasp cuts through the steady noise behind my head when Tessa's phone really does vibrate this time—two long, painfully slow pulses pouring out before the previous hum finally stops.
I picture Tess freezing, one hand on her phone, the other still between her thighs. In my mind, she's looking at my name flashing across the screen, still touching herself—maybe more now—as she tries to decide what to do.Fucking torture.
My cock throbs under my jeans as I hold my breath. When the line rings once more, I think she might decline the call.
But then, the phone connects.
"Liam, hi," she answers, her voice high but her breathing labored.
The sound of my name paralyzes me.
"Hell—"
