My hips roll up into my own hand. My breath gets louder. I don’t even close my eyes. I want the camera to see.
I want him to see how much I want to be his.
How much I alreadyam.
The climax hits like a pulled pin. Fast. Brutal.
My whole body spasms. And when it’s over, I sink into his scent, his shirt, the wreckage of what I just did in his bed.
And smile.
I get up eventually. Don’t bother fixing the bed. Let him see it when he walks in. The rumpled placed I got off in a cloud of his scent.
Button my jeans, leave the shirt on the bed.
The closet door is right there. I open it. The suits, the ties, but pushed to the side, casual clothes. A charcoal grey t-shirt, soft and obviously worn.
I hold it up to my face. Laundry detergent and him.
I put it on.
It falls to mid-thigh. The sleeves past my hands. I have to roll them up twice just to find my fingers.
I look at myself in the mirror on the back of his closet door.
Blonde hair messy from writhing on his pillow. His shirt drowning me. Looking like a woman who’s completely lost the plot and found something better on the other side.
I should take it off. Put my own shirt back on and leave before this gets worse.
I don’t. I just stand there, looking at myself in his clothes, trying to understand what I’m becoming.
This is who you are now. A home-invading, shirt-stealing, dessert goblin with a criminal record pending and a sense of self-worth shaped like a cookie tin.
You don’t need therapy. You need an exorcism and a nap.
Someone clears their throat.
Every muscle in my body turns to stone.
I spin around.
Dario is leaning against the bedroom doorframe. Arms crossed. Those dark eyes tracking over me slowly, the shirt, my face, my absolute fucking mortification.
“Hi, Stevie,” he says.
His voice is low and smooth and exactly how I remembered it all those nights I was definitely not imagining it.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t do anything except stand here frozen in his bedroom, wearing his shirt, my own shirt on the bed, evidence of my crimes.
“I.” My voice doesn’t work. I try again. “I didn’t think you were home.”
“I wasn’t.” He pushes off the doorframe. Doesn’t come closer. Just stands there, giving me space to panic. “I am now.”
Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh.
“I should go.”
Can he smell the orgasm in the air?
