“I’ll call you next week. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”
The line goes dead, and I lower the phone from my ear to stare down at it in my hand, a little shocked that I actually managed to go through with it.
“I think we’re already past that point, Doc,” I mutter before tossing the phone to the end of the couch.
The faint hum of the interference device still buzzes in the background, cocooning me in just enough privacy to think. I tilt my head at the camera. My pulse is still all over the place. My hands are less than steady. My brain feels like it’s been put through a blender on puree.
So, naturally…I choose chaos.
Pushing myself off the couch, I walk over to my desk and flick the device off. The hum dies instantly. Just like that, the silence becomes heavy.
“Wouldn’t want you missing anything,” I whisper under my breath.
I head back to the couch, dropping onto it and leaning my head back against the cushions as though I’m exhausted. Which…okay, yes. I am. But that’s not the point.
The point is the camera.
Or rather, who’s on the other side of it watching.
I drag my left hand slowly down my chest, exhaling a soft moan as my eyes flutter shut. Stopping at my right pec, I knead it before moving to the left and massaging it too. Already feeling a little warm, I sit up and remove my shirt, tossing it onto the floor before leaning back again. I go back to massaging my chest, letting slip another moan as I pinch my nipple.
Don’t ask me where the idea came from. All I know is that I want him to see me.
I don’t think the goal is to hurt him. I don’t think Ican. If I could, great. But…I don’t think he cares enough. If I can just convince him that I don’t want him anymore, that I’ve moved on, that’d be enough for me.
Hell, if I could just convincemyself…
But the act isn’t entirely fake, and that’s the problem. Because my body doesn’t really care about context. About trauma or hate. It just remembers—touch, more ghosts than skin, the way his shadows felt…
My stomach twists.
It’s as though they’re here now. Dread and something darker curl together in my gut in a way I don’t want to unpack right now. So I don’t. I lean into the performance instead, letting my head roll across the cushions, letting my breathing shift, slower, heavier. Letting my hand move lower, lower, lower…
Even though it was Reese’s touch I wanted, I can’t deny that feeling all those hands on me drove me fucking wild. If I hadn’t been freshly tortured and quite literally willing to die to feel Reese’s touch, then I easily could have sunk so deep into theirs that I would’ve had a hard time finding my way back up.
That may or may not be the reason my cock is already rock fucking hard by the time I take it out of my jeans.
My brain wants to forget the other effect they had on me, so I let it.
I spit in my palm, then fist my shaft, squeezing tight as I stroke up until a bead of precum leaks from the tip. I stare, remembering what it felt like to beso fucking fullof his shadows. Looking back on it now…fuck. I didn’t hate it.
At least when it was my cock, not my fucking lungs.
Groaning, I sink a little deeper into the sofa and start to stroke myself with purpose. My glasses slip a little low on my nose, but I don’t bother pushing them back. I thrust my hips up, fucking into my hand. My eyes close, and everything else starts to fade away as I jerk my cock, twisting my hand around my head and smearing precum up and down my length.
For a while, I forget that I’m supposed to be putting on a show.
Oh, right.
I moan again, bringing my other hand up to rub across my chest, pinching one nipple, then the other. Then I let a name slip from my lips, drawn-out and breathless. But it’s not the one I’ve been thinking about.
“Harrison.”
Nope.
Abort. Abort. Abort.
Wow, that felt really fucking wrong.
