Page 43 of Holiday Interference
Again.
The sheets shift. She murmurs something in her sleep, lips parting slightly, but she doesn’t wake. I sit on the edge of the bed for a second, hands clenched, jaw tight, trying to breathe through the ache low in my gut.
Then I stand.
The floor’s cold under my feet, the kind of cold that usually helps ground me.
But not this morning.
Not when I can still feel the press of her hips against mine, her breath on my neck, her moan seared into my skin like a brand.
I pad down the hall, letting the silence settle. Not the awkward kind. Not the brittle kind I’ve lived with most of my life.
This kind is different.
Warm but as though waiting for something.
I move through the kitchen on autopilot.
Mug. Grounds. Button.
The quiet hum of the machine fills the space, along with the low buzz of the heater kicking on again.
My hand scrapes over my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. I should shower. Should dosomethingproductive. But allI can do is stand here, gripping the counter, trying to get my head right.
She’s still here. Still in my bed and in my clothes.
Last night, she was in my shower, and it took everything I had not to march in there, shove her against the wall, and fuck her the way I want to.
But I didn’t.
I just daydreamed about the water sluicing down her body, before that picture made my dick so hard it hurt.
Then I had to think about my stats this year, and that was enough to get rid of the pain in my pants.
God knows, I’ve already crossed a line I told myself I wouldn’t. A line that felt permanent the second I touched her.
The coffee finishes, and I pour a mugful. Leaning back against the counter, I sip the sharp and bitter brew slow, letting the heat hit my throat and settle in my chest.
Then I hear her.
Soft footsteps. Bare and light against the floor.
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to.
The second she steps into the kitchen, I know I’m screwed.
Something’s got to give before I lose my damn mind.
Her hair’s a mess—soft, wild, barely tamed by sleep—but she walks in like she owns the space.
She’s changed into another one of my shirts, this time one that’s long enough to nearly reach her knees. It hangs off one slim shoulder, and even worse?
She didn’t put on the pants, so I not only felt her bare legs in the bed, but now all that creamy skin flashes as she moves into the room.
Add to the fact that her sleep-heavy eyes lock on mine like a heat-seeking missile, and I’m a goner.
My chest tightens, my palms go clammy.
