How am I supposed to do Monday? How am I supposed to walk into that training facility and pretend my entire world didn’t just shift in a parking lot?
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second. The way he looked at me in the truck. The sound he made when I bit his lip. The deliberate slowness of that final touch at my door.
“See youMonday, Marnie.”
Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was giving me time to think about it.
Like he was torturing us both on purpose.
I roll over, punching my pillow, trying to find a position where my body stops humming with leftover adrenaline and want.
Monday.
I’m so screwed.
10
ROMAN
Week 11 of Rehabilitation - Early October
I've been sittingin the parking lot since 5:30, half-hard from thinking about Friday night.
The facility doesn't officially open until six but I can see lights on inside—maintenance crew, maybe, or some eager rookie trying to prove something. The digital clock on the dash ticks over to 5:46 and I still haven't moved.
Because Friday night.
"Do you want to?—"
She was going to finish that sentence. Invite me in. I saw it in her eyes, the way they went dark when I had her pressed against my truck. Felt it in the way her fingers twisted in my shirt when I kissed her, holding on like she was trying to keep me there.
And what did I do? Said "See you Monday" like some noble fucking asshole who thought he was doing the right thing.
I've jerked off three times this weekend thinking about what would've happened if I'd said yes. If I'd followed her inside. If I'd let her finish that invitation instead of cutting her offlike a coward.
I know exactly how it would've gone. Her apartment door barely closed before I had her against it. My hands in her hair, on her waist, everywhere. Finding out what other sounds she makes besides that gasp when I bit her ear. Whether she'd let me drop to my knees right there in her entryway. How she'd taste?—
My phone buzzes and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Dex
You coming in or you gonna sit in your truck all morning like a creep?
I look up. He's standing at the entrance, coffee in hand, grinning at me through the glass.
Fuck.
I grab my bag and get out of the truck, adjusting myself as discreetly as possible.
"Morning," Dex says when I reach the door. "You look like shit."
"Didn't sleep much."
"Yeah?" His grin widens. "That why you've been sitting in the parking lot having what looks like a very intense conversation with your steering wheel?"
"Fuck off."
"You seeing Doc this morning?"
