Page 76 of The Overtime Kiss

But I have to get it together.

Make my bed. Go to sleep. Do my job tomorrow at the skating rink since I have lessons.

But even as I yank off the quilt and smooth out the sheets, I can’t unsee what I almost saw.

What I wanted to see.

I yank the sheets over the corners, trying desperately to focus on the mundane act to distract my mind. But once I’m in bed under the covers, I picture him again, filling in the paint-by-numbers of a man alone in bed at night. His strong body stretched out. His forearm flexing. Veins protruding. Fist curled around his cock, stroking hard.

I gasp. Then moan.

Oh god.

This is not helpful. I am not going to sleep like this.

I fumble for my phone, needing something—anything—to distract myself.

A book? A podcast? Texting with friends?

All appealing.

But what I should do is focus on work. Yes, that’ll do the trick.

I hop onto my social media to check for messages from potential clients. The perfect distraction. When I land there, I see a notification waiting for me.

My brow furrows.

It’s a heart on the skating video I posted this morning.

From Falcon Defender.

Oh. My. God.

I click on the profile.

It’s Tyler.

He doesn’t post much, but this is him. This is definitely him. There are pictures of him with the kids. Laughing. Taking them on a picnic. Visiting an animal rescue. At a hockey game.

And then—nearly a year ago—a photo of him and me the night I performed at a game.

“Big figure-skating fan!”

That’s all he says, and it’s lovely. But that’s not what lights me up. It’s the timestamp on the heart on my video.

From five minutes ago.

Five minutes ago.

When I was in the hall outside his room.

Five minutes ago.

When I heard that grunt.

My stomach flips again. He was watching my video in bed.

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