Page 48

God, I’m tired. The last few days have been one long drop on a rollercoaster I didn’t buy a ticket for—Theo’s fall, the hospital, Simon showing up, the way he looked at me in the kitchen this morning like he still knows exactly how to undo me. My body feels heavy with it all.

I stretch out on my side, pulling the throw blanket over me without thinking. The couch still smells like him. His cologne—something woodsy and clean—has soaked into the fabric along with the faint scent of his skin. I press my face into the pillow and inhale, eyes closing. He looked so good this morning. That T-shirt stretched across his chest, the way the grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, the outline of him impossible to miss. My thighs press together at the memory.

I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this.

We’ve been split up for nearly four years. He has a girlfriend. Veronica. I didn’t even ask last night if they’re still together. The question was right there on my tongue in the car, but I swallowed it down with everything else. For all I know she’s still in the picture—still texting him, still sharing his bed.

But the ache between my legs isn’t listening to reason.

I bite my lip, debating with myself for another long minute. This is stupid. Be selfish for once. Just once. My hand slides down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts and then under the soft cotton of my underwear. I’m already wet, the fabric clinging to my folds. A quiet sound escapes me as my fingertips brush my clit, circling slowly at first, testing.

I let the fantasy build.

Simon standing in the living room this morning, close enough that I can feel the heat of him. Those sweatpants doing nothing to hide the thick line of his cock. I imagine reaching out, palming him through the fabric the way I used to, feeling him twitch and harden under my touch. My fingers move faster, slick now, rubbing tight circles over my clit while my other hand pushes my shirt up to cup my breast. I pinch my nipple, rolling it the way Simon used to with his teeth.

In my head he’s on his knees between my thighs, that low voice murmuring against my skin.

Missed this. Missed how wet you get for me.

I push two fingers inside myself with a soft gasp, curling them, fucking myself slowly while my thumb keeps working my clit. The stretch feels good, but it isn’t enough. I want him—the weight of his body, the way he used to pin my wrists and take his time until I’m shaking.

My hips rock against my hand. The blanket still smells like him, and I bury my face deeper, breathing him in while I fuck myself harder, chasing the edge. I’m close already, thighs trembling, breath coming in short pants. In the fantasy Simon is above me now, sweatpants shoved down, cock heavy and flushed as he rubs the head through my folds before pushing in deep. I moan into the pillow, fingers moving faster, the wet sounds of my own touch loud in the quiet room.

The orgasm hits sudden and sharp. My back arches, walls pulsing around my fingers as pleasure rolls through me in long, shuddering waves. I keep rubbing through it, drawing it out until I’m oversensitive and breathless, until the tension finally eases from my shoulders.

When it’s over I lie here panting, hand still tucked between my legs, the guilt already creeping in around the edges.

“Fuck,” I whisper out loud, the weight of what I just did crashing over me in a hot, shameful wave.

I’m not a prude. I’ve masturbated a million times over the years—own a small, well-curated collection of toys in my nightstand drawer—and I’ve never once let myself fantasize about Simon. That’s always been a hard line. But now the line is smeared, and the evidence is all over my fingers.

“Fuck,” I curse again, louder this time. I yank my hand free and scramble off the couch like the cushions are on fire, staring at my palm as if it acted without permission. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I rush to the kitchen sink, scrubbing my hands under scalding water until my skin stings, then dry them so fast the towel tangles. My phone is in my hand before I’ve even decided to call, thumb already hitting Jamie’s name.

She answers after what feels like an eternity, her son’s voice loud in the background, mid-rant about something involving dinosaurs and injustice. “Blaire, hey, is everything okay? Can I call you back—”

“I fucked Simon,” I blurt, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

Silence. Then a muffled, “Hudson, fine. Go play outside. Now.” I hear the screen door slam and Jamie’s full attention swings back to me. “Okay, repeat that? You fucked Simon?”

“Well—uh, no. Not… not for real. Just… fuck. I masturbated to him.” The confession lands like a stone in my stomach. I feel ridiculous. Pathetic. “I can’t believe I’m even saying this out loud.”

“Okay. Slow down. Breathe. Explain.”

I pace the kitchen, one hand gripping the phone, the other pressed to my forehead. “He crashed on my couch last night after the hospital. Now he’s at the park with Theo, and I just wanted to lie down for five minutes, but the blanket still smells like him—his cologne, his skin—and he looked so fucking good this morning in those stupid grey sweatpants and that tight shirt, and I think I’m ovulating or something because my brain just… short-circuited.” I groan, dragging my free hand down my face. “I masturbated to the idea of him. To the smell of him. I can’t believe I did that.”

For a second Jamie says nothing. Then she exhales, half-laughing. “Okay. That’s… alright. We’ve all had our moments. Remember when I hooked up with Hudson’s dad last summer right after he got out of jail? Masturbating isn’t nearly as bad as that.”

A weak, shaky laugh escapes me. “It feels pretty bad. He still has a girlfriend, I think. And now this is going to make being around him weird, and he—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, please don’t start that whole ‘he doesn’t have feelings for me’ spiral again. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for another round of that pep talk.” Jamie’s voice softens, but there’s steel underneath. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure he’s done the same to you. You don’t see the way he looks at your ass during Theo’s T-ball games. Like he’s starving and you’re the only thing on the menu.”

I groan again, louder this time, and drop onto one of the kitchen stools. “That does not make me feel better, Jamie.”

She snorts. “Didn’t think it would. But look—fantasies happen. You’re human. You’re allowed to be a little selfish and stupid once in a while. Just… don’t let it mess with your head too much. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

I let out a shaky breath, the words landing heavier than they should. “I feel so pathetic. My son is injured and I spent half the ER trip checking out how hot Simon looked, and then I fuck myself to his scent like some desperate teenager. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Jamie genuinely laughs at that—bright and unfiltered, the sound cutting through the static in my head. “You’re ovulating, babes. It happens. Biology’s a bitch when it wants to be.”