And every single time, she looked at me first.
Like she wanted me to see it.
Like my approval mattered.
That alone nearly fucking destroyed me.
Then there were the thoughts.
Violent.
Explicit.
Constant.
Because sitting beside her night after night had become its own form of ritualistic suffering.
She was always so close.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to smell.
Close enough that I could imagine exactly how those soft curves would feel beneath my hands.
Against my body.
Under me.
Fuck.
I shifted slightly in my chair, adjusting my sweats before she noticed the increasingly familiar problem between my legs.
Again.
Another hard-on.
At this rate, I was going to spend the rest of the semester perpetually erect and one minor inconvenience away from losing my mind completely.
And ever since she’d tried to touch me the other night?
Well, my desire for her had gotten so much worse.
Maybe I should have allowed it because right now I was this close to begging for it.
Fuck.
I should have asked for something better in return for helping her with the assignment.
Not cleaning.
Not laundry.
Not helping organize my quarters like some celestial idiot desperate for domestic companionship.
No.
I should have demanded something impossible.
