Page 18 of Lovers in Lockdown

I can’t sleep.

I’ve been staring at the bedroom ceiling without blinking for so long that my eyes are starting to feel like the Sahara Desert. I’ve been trying to get my brain to stop thinking about Noah, but it turns out that the more you think about not thinking about something, the more you end up thinking about that something. And for over a week, Noah has certainly been a something that I cannot stop thinking about.

I can’t even blame the memory of his shirtless torso for my sleepless nights - though it certainly contributes - it’s the fact that he seems to take a genuine interest in who I am. And that’s never happened to me before.

No one has ever cared about my art. Not even my parents, who have always assumed that I was forced into teaching because I have no artistic abilities.Those who can’t paint, teachand all that. Not that they have any evidence to base their theory on because they’ve never actually seen my work. A good thing, really, because I went through a stage of painting their faces onto the bellends of papier-måché penises.

But they weren’t at all impressed that I was top of my fine art class at university, or that one of my professors loved my work so much that they commissioned me to paint a portrait of their family. They didn’t even come to my graduation. I guess there’s just no glory in teaching kids to paint.

Although, Noah seems to think there is.

By the time I give up trying to get to sleep, it’s three am and I’m gasping for a drink. Making sure to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Noah, I creep out of the bedroom and down the hallway like I’m an agent in the secret service. But mid ninja-roll, the sudden sound of heavy breathing stops me still in my stealthy tracks.

Panting. I can hear panting.

Hot, heavy panting. And the rhythmic squeaking of couch springs. It sounds like -

Holy shit, it sounds like Noah’s having sex on our couch!

That’s wrong on so many levels. Not only is it crazy disrespectful to fuck some random girl on my brother’s couch while I’m sleeping in the next room, but I cannot think of anything worse than a stranger getting bodily fluids all over my furniture. Especially during a pandemic.Hell no.

I ignore the stabbing feeling of jealousy in the pit of my stomach and do a couple more ninja rolls down the hallway until I’m able to peer my head around the corner to have a look at what’s going on.

My jaw hits the floor at the sight before me. There is no woman humping the ever-loving shit out of Noah like I’d feared. Nope. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Moonlight streams through a crack in the curtains and illuminates where Noah is lying on the couch. Alone. On his back. With his underwear around his ankles.And his hand fisted around his freaking cock.

Holy moly pudding and pie.

I’m paralysed. My mouth is hanging open and my legs are locked in place. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I can’t do anything but watch Noah’s eyelids flutter shut as he slides his fist up and down his length.

Jesus, it’s hot in here. I’m sweating, salivating. I will my legs to move, but they won’t. Even though I know how wrong it is of me to be standing here watching him,they just won’t move.

His knuckles are white from the strength of his grip and sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead. The hair at the back of his head is ruffled and shaggy where it’s been rubbing against the couch and I wish I could run my hands through it and feel the softness of each strand between my fingers.

Actually, if I’m wishing for stuff, I wish that it could be me touching him instead. Making him feel good. Making him groan the way he’s doing now with my hands and my lips and my tongue.

His breaths quicken and his moans grow louder. His fist moves faster, grips tighter, until his hips are rising off the couch and his head is tilting back.

My skin burns hot like it’s on fire and my breathing is just as raspy as Noah’s. I feel like I could climax just by watching him. Just by imagining the feel of him inside me, imagining my pussy wrapped around his cock as tightly as his fist is now.

Noah’s losing control, I can see it. The lines of his face are creased in concentration, his legs are trembling - just like mine - and his mouth has fallen open. His hips thrust into his hand erratically, desperately,savagelyand the ache between my legs thuds harder.

He fists himself harder, his hand moving faster. His entire body shudders violently as he roars out his release, exploding over his hand and naked stomach.

I gasp.

Noah’s eyes snap to mine. He looks surprised, confused. Possibly violated. That’s certainly how I would feel anyway, if someone watched me having a ménageà moi from the darkest corner of the room.

I turn and run back down the hallway as fast as I can, my face red and burning in shame.

Shit.

He saw me.

He knows I was watching. He knows I was standing there and staring at him like some kind of pervert hiding in the shadows.

God help me.

How the hell am I going to get through the rest of lockdown now?

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