Page 18 of My Ex-Military Biker

If I close that inch, if I touch her hand, I'm going to pull her toward me and find out if her mouth tastes as good as I've been imagining since the bathroom. Going to get my hands under that shirt and find out if her skin is as soft everywhere as it looks. Going to back her against the counter and see what sounds she makes when I'm pressed against her.

I want to close that inch.

Want it so badly my hand is shaking slightly with the effort of not moving.

But I don't.

I pull back.

She pulls back half a second later.

We both pretend it didn't happen.

She picks up the glass and drinks the rest of the water.

"I should let you sleep," she says.

Her voice sounds steadier than the air between us feels.

"Yeah."

She walks past me, close enough that I feel the movement of air when she passes and to catch that soap smell again.

She stops in the doorway to the hallway, and turns back.

"Tate?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you. For stopping."

"You're welcome."

She nods once, then disappears down the hallway.

I stand there in the kitchen for a solid minute trying to get my breathing under control.

I move back to the couch, lie down, and stare at the ceiling again.

The house is quiet except for the sound of her moving around in my bedroom. Drawers opening. The bed creaking when she sits on it. Small sounds that shouldn't matter and somehow do.

I close my eyes. Try to sleep.

Can't.

Every time I start to drift, I see her in that bathroom. Her hands on my skin. The way she looked at me when our eyes met. The shape of her body in my clothes.

The wound aches, I ignore it.

My cock is half-hard again, and I ignore that too.

I get up, walk to the kitchen, drink water I don't need, and walk back to the couch.

Lie down again.

This is going to be a long night…

The ceiling doesn't have answers. I stare at it anyway.