Page 66 of Across the Boards

Despite everything, I feel a smile tugging at my lips. The man is impossible.

I set the phone down on my nightstand, turning off the lamp and settling into bed. My lips still tingle from his kisses, a phantom sensation that no amount of rational thinking can erase.

Sweet dreams indeed.

* * *

The ceiling offersno answers as I stare up at it in the dark. Only a canvas for my churning thoughts to project onto. Outside, a coyote howls somewhere in the desert preserve beyond our complex—one of those quintessential Phoenix sounds that still feels exotic to me even after years here.

I shift restlessly under the covers, my body humming with an energy that refuses to dissipate despite my mental exhaustion. The memory of Brody’s hands on me, the pressure of his body against mine on the couch, keeps replaying in vivid detail.

My skin feels too sensitive, too aware. I close my eyes, determined to sleep, but that only makes the sensory memories more intense—the gentle rasp of his stubble against my neck, the firm pressure of his fingers on my thigh, the heat of his mouth.

“Stop it,” I whisper to myself in the darkness. “Just go to sleep.”

But my body isn’t listening to my rational mind. There’s an ache building, a restless need I haven’t felt in far too long.

Three years of self-imposed celibacy after Jason—three years of redirecting my energy into work, into rebuilding, into anything but this desperate wanting—and all it took was twenty minutes with Brody Carter to demolish my carefully constructed walls.

I roll onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow. But that position only makes me more aware of the heaviness in my breasts, the tension coiling low in my abdomen. I can almost feel the weight of him above me again, the way he’d pressed me into the couch cushions.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, flipping onto my back again. I’m a grown woman, not some teenager pining after her first kiss.

And yet.

My hand drifts down almost of its own accord, sliding beneath the waistband of my flannel pants. I should stop. I should go take a cold shower or read a technical manual or do literally anything besides touch myself while thinking about my neighbor.

But I don’t stop.

Instead, I let my eyes drift closed again, surrendering to the memory of Brody’s kiss. In my mind, there was no awkward revelation, no abrupt ending. Just the continued exploration of each other, his hands sliding higher up my thighs, under my dress.

I gasp softly as my fingers find slick heat, evidence of just how affected I still am by what happened earlier. Slow circles, teasing myself the way I imagine he might—gentle at first, learning what I like, what makes me respond.

In my fantasy, he’s murmuring against my neck, words of appreciation, of desire. His voice with that slight Boston accent, roughened with want. Telling me how beautiful I am, how much he’s thought about this. About me.

I arch into my own touch, free hand clutching at the sheets as the pleasure builds. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way—not just physically aroused, but emotionally engaged, mentally present in my own body instead of going through the motions.

The fantasy shifts, grows bolder. In my mind, I’m straddling him on the couch, his hands on my hips guiding me. I can see his expression so clearly—those blue eyes darkened with desire, that perfect mouth slightly parted, watching me with that intense focus that makes me feel like the only woman in the world.

I whisper his name into the darkness, it’s both a confession and a surrender.

When release finally comes, it catches me by surprise—intense and overwhelming after so long without. I muffle a cry against my free hand, body arching off the bed, pleasure washing through me in waves.

For a few blissful moments, my mind is empty of everything but sensation. No anxiety, no overthinking, no weighing of pros and cons. Just pure, physical relief.

Then reality crashes back. I’m alone in my bed, hand still between my legs, having just fantasized about the man whose revelation hours earlier sent me into an emotional tailspin.

“Well done, Elliot,” I mutter to myself, withdrawing my hand and staring up at the ceiling again. “Very mature.”

But the orgasm has done what hours of mental gymnastics couldn’t—cleared my head enough to see through the tangle of emotions to something resembling clarity.

I’m not really angry at Brody for knowing I lived here before he moved in. That’s not the core issue. What unsettles me is that he kept it from me, making decisions that affected our interactions based on information I didn’t have.

It’s about control of my own narrative. About agency. About not being blindsided again by a man I’m starting to care about.

With a frustrated sigh, I reach for my phone again. It’s nearly 2 AM now—too late for rational decisions, too early for conversation. But I find myself typing anyway.

I’m not mad that you knew I lived here. I’m unsettled that you kept it from me. There’s a difference.

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