Page 75 of The Pucking Arrangement

The way her breath would hitch.

The way her nails would dig into my skin.

The way she’d bite her lip, trying to keep quiet—until I make it impossible.

I fist my aching length, my hand working fervently, each stroke bringing me closer, closer, until?—

Fuck.

Release slams through me, white-hot and violent, spilling against the shower wall. But even as I stand there, water gradually turning icy against my skin, there’s no relief. The chill bites into me, but it’s nothing compared to the torment inside.

My self-care routine has lost its power. It doesn’t help. Nothing fucking helps. Not when I can still see those shorts. Not when I can still feel how she trembled when I leaned in.

I need sleep. Desperately. I collapse onto my bed, not bothering with a shirt, the sheets cool against my skin. But my mind won’t shut the fuck up.

I want to watch her play.

I want to watch her exercise.

I want to watch her unravel beneath me, hear her scream my name.

I want to possess her completely.

I must drift off, because the next thing I know…

Music.

Floating through my window. Bach. I roll over, and?—

Fuck.

I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, drawn to the window like she’s calling me personally. She’s outside by the pool, sheet music scattered around her chair, bathed in golden morning light. Her bow moves in long, fluid strokes, her eyes closed, completely lost in the music. And the look on her face?—

Pure. Unfiltered.Rapture.

She’s changed—a sundress now, something soft and flowing, slipping over her body like a second skin. Her hair spills over her shoulders, loose and wild. She sways with the music, and the fabric dances around her thighs. Her bare feet tap against the grass, keeping time, and somehow that’s more erotic than those tiny fucking shorts.

This is her domain. Where she’s completely free. Completely herself. And I have to fight the vicious need to go down there.

To watch up close as the music takes her.

To trace the curve of her neck as she leans into a phrase.

To feel the vibrations of the cello under my hands.

But she needs this timeto prepare, to center herself. She throws her head back on a particularly passionate section, and my fingers tighten around the window frame.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A few more hours.

A few more hours of this torture.

Then tonight—watching her perform, watching others watch her, knowing none of them will ever have what’s mine.

I press my forehead to the glass, exhaling slowly, gripping the last frayed edges of my control. Because after tonight?—

She will be mine.

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