Page 52 of One Wrong Move

I blow out a frustrated breath and put an arm under my head. I shouldn’t imagine this.

Not that it’s the first time my mind has wandered in that direction.

I used to feel guilty. Guilty because I knew she wouldn’t want me to picture her that way, and guilty because it was the ultimate betrayal of Dean. That guilt was stronger than my anger, frustration, and the wasted fucking need for her.

The need I’ve always felt for her.

And now she’s in my house. Just downstairs. She cooked me dinner tonight, and she smiled and laughed with me. We’re friends now. Becoming friends, at any rate, outside of her relationship with Dean.

But my traitorous self can’t seem to be content with that.

I want her to like me. That’s the truth of it. I can admit it, at least.

So, I’m trying. Doing whatever I can to make it happen.

But I also know it’s not the right move. She’s not looking for anything. She’s been hurt by Dean, and they just broke up. Of course, she still has feelings for him. The thought makes my stomach turn.

She’s single. She’s not attached to him any longer. But that still doesn’t make her mine.

And yet, knowing that does nothing to make the vision in my mind go away, because it never does, does it? I’ve also never had to contend with her presence before like this.

Is she using the vibrator right now?

I can’t believe she never used a sex toy before. If I’d been her boyfriend, if I’d been Dean, I would’ve spoiled her with orgasms. Discovered every single way to make her come.

Make play essential in the bedroom.

But maybe Dean and Harper didn’t need to spice it up. Maybe they?—

I stomp out the thought and smother the familiar jealousy. It was always the ugliest of my emotions attached to Harper, and I knew it was entirely undeserved. I released most of it when I moved to London. Once I saw Dean far less often, and by extension, the two of them together.

My need for her won’t go away, however. Has been coursing through my body since I found that vibrator among her purchases, tempered only by our conversation and her food and the obligation to act normal around Harper. But now that I’m alone and in bed, the need is all I feel.

I’m hard.

Have been since she said goodnight at her landing, one hand on her bedroom door while the other held her large bag.

I knew what was in that bag.

The silence around me is absolute. I haven’t heard a sound from her room below, but I strain to listen anyway. As if I’d be able to hear her soft moans through wood and brick, and mortar.

I reach down with my right arm and surrender.

My cock has been resting against my stomach with angry urgency, but I don’t give it what it wants. I stroke it leisurely. Give in to the temptation and let my imagination run wild.

Harper’s familiar form blooms in front of my shuttered eyelids. How she might look beneath her clothes.

The soft swell of her tits, her rosy nipples. Her stomach. Her hand at the apex of her legs. The vibrator pressed against her clit, or inside her… I imagine her pushing it all the way in, the length disappearing into her pussy, and the little vibrating nub coming to rest on her throbbing bud.

Her breathing turns heavy. A moan escapes as the vibrator settles inside her heat.

I imagine her sweating. Skin flushed and glistening.

And I imagine her eyes on me, as my hand controls that vibrator.

She trusts me. Wants me. Begs me to let her come.

I tighten my hand around my shaft. Stop all movement for a few seconds to prolong what’s already been going on far too long.

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