My hands aren't even down my pants. That's hero behavior, for sure.
Given the nights I’ve spent outside her building just to make sure her light comes on, it’s practically nothing. This is not worse than that. This barely makes the list of reasons I’m going straight to the fieriest pit in hell.
But that doesn’t stop me from pushing a chair up to the vent and standing on it. Cocking my head, I listen closely. It sounds like she's right in front of me, touching herself. Little gasps and moans escape her.
Is she picturing us fucking? Me taking control and dominating her? Or maybe it's the other way around.
I'd get on my knees for her, eat her pussy so well that she'd be satisfied for days. Maybe she'd realize that I'm the only man who could make her scream. I know her soft little sounds; there would be no awkward fumbling with me.
My eyes close as her sounds come faster and needier. This is spank bank material for years to come. Her sounds are hotter than watching the actual act would be.
I'm about to combust, either way.
"Alex," she sobs. "Fuck, Thorne..."
This girl is trying to murder me. I spread my fingers out against the wall and press my ear against the vent.
She comes with my name on her lips. Her breathing slows and evens out.
Show's over. I climb down and lie back in bed, my mind spinning. I knew Mollie had a little crush on me. A fact which she doubled down on by asking me to take her virginity. But this is the first time since she came to live with me that I'm facing it head-on.
I have never been harder in my life. It's difficult not to whip my cock out and jerk it until I come.
But that would be crossing a line I don't know how to uncross. Dirty fantasies are one thing, if they have no chance in hell of ever happening. But this? Being right next door and knowing I could knock if I wanted?
Too real.
So I lie there in the dark with my hands at my sides like a saint, or possibly a corpse.
Not touching myself right now is the least unhinged thing I've done in a year. I'm choosing to feel good about it.
I don't touch myself, and I don't knock on her door, and I don't do a single thing except stare at the ceiling and slowly lose my mind.
Falling asleep after all that is near impossible. When I do sleep, I toss and turn, restless.
The next morning, I show up at the rink with bags under my eyes and a very specific plan: be professional,be distant, give her nothing to work with. Rebuild the walls that have been slowly crumbling since the lake house. Mollie Tate is my roommate and my co-captain's little sister, and that's the end of the sentence.
I spent twenty minutes in front of my bathroom mirror this morning rebuilding my walls. My voice comes out at exactly the right register when I greet people. My expression is neutral. I’m so controlled that Beck texts me from across the facility asking if I'm coming down with something, which means I'm overcorrecting.
Fuck. It means if you know where to look, my walls are visible from the outside. Mollie knows where to look, too, so I keep my eyes off her face.
She's already at the empty practice rink when I arrive, set up on the bench with her phone and her shot list and a coffee cup that's already half-empty, looking annoyingly awake. She gives me a look that says she’s clocked the bags under my eyes and has decided not to comment. It’s somehow worse than if she had.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Born ready," I say, which is the dumbest thing that's ever come out of my mouth.
She bites down on a smile. "Sure you are."
We get on the ice. I give her what she needs for the content without handing over anything real, which is a skill I've been honing for thirty-two years. She calls directions and I follow them, and we don't touch each other, and it's completely fine.
"Can you do that again, but actually look like you're enjoying yourself?" she calls from the boards.
"I am enjoying myself."
"You look like you're filing taxes."
I do it again. She sighs, but doesn't push it further. Which means either the footage is acceptable, or she's given up on me. Honestly both are fine.
