Page 11 of The Spark

He chuckled, sipping his coffee, and for a moment, it felt like old times.

But there was something else in the air now—something thick and unspoken.

That night,we’d sat on the couch watching The Photograph, the glow from the TV casting soft shadows across his face. I hadn’t thought anything of it when I suggested the movie, but then that scene happened—the storm raging outside, Mae riding Michael slow, deep, eyes locked as their bodies moved in sync.

I felt it then. The weight of Amir’s presence beside me. The clench of my thighs, the way my breath shallowed, the way my nipples pebbled against my camisole.

I wondered if he was thinking about it too. If he imagined me like that, sinking down onto him, slow and deep, taking my time.

But when the credits rolled, he got up. No reaction. No tension. Just a simple,"I’m going to bed."

I had never been more frustrated in my life.

That night, I slipped my hand beneath the sheets, my fingers finding the slick heat between my thighs. I was already drenched just from thinking about him.

The first slide of my fingers over my clit made my whole body jerk, my breath stuttering as I spread myself wider, my other hand gripping the sheets.

I was so wet, the sound of my slickness loud in the quiet of my room, obscene and needy.

I imagined him watching me, those dark brown eyes hooded with lust, his lips parted as he took in the mess I was making of myself.

His voice, low and thick, whispering,"Damn, baby. Look at you. So messy for me. Let me taste it. Let me ruin you."

I came hard, my body arching off the bed, my fingers plunging deep inside of my pussy as my hips rocked, fucking myself through the waves of pleasure that crashed over me.

My breath caught, legs trembling, thighs slick, my pussy clenching around the emptiness that only he could fill.

But it wasn’t enough.

I needed him and that realization fucked me up.

The next morning, I acted like nothing happened. And maybe I would’ve kept it together, if not for the way Amir looked at me. Like he knew. Like he had heard me. Like he had laid awake all night, fist wrapped around his dick, listening to me fall apart without him.

5

The studio had always been my escape.

The one place where everything made sense. Where I could drown out the noise, sink into the music, and forget about everything else.

But today that shit wasn’t happening.

Not when I still had the image of Amaya burned into the back of my mind—standing in her kitchen, sleepy-eyed and barefoot, her oversized tee barely covering the curve of her ass. The way she looked at me when she took that first bite of pancake, like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. The sound she made when she chewed—soft, sweet, completely unaware of how it had fucked me up for the entire damn day.

I adjusted myself in my seat, exhaling through my nose as I scrolled through the session files. I needed to get my head in the game, focus on the track I was supposed to be laying down with an artist today. But the second I tried to cue up the beat, my mind drifted again.

To her.

To the way we kept getting too close. The brushes, the glances, the weight of tension so thick I could taste it.

And to the fact that, last night, when we watchedThe Photograph, I knew she was feeling it too. I’d seen the way she shifted, the way her thighs pressed together, the way her breathing changed. I felt the way the air between us stretched tight, thick with something we weren’t acknowledging.

I wanted to.

I wanted to lean over, drag my fingers up her bare thigh, and slide them beneath those tiny-ass shorts she always wore around the apartment like she wasn’t testing every bit of my restraint. I wanted to find out just how wet she was, how long she’d been sitting there aching for me.cI wanted her to remember that one time, she let me go further… that one time I had a taste of her.

But I didn’t.

Because once I touched her again, I wasn’t gonna want to stop.

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