Page 14 of Yearn
She probably didn’t notice.
However, I thought about her scent and touch for the rest of the day on rounds.
Even the memory of her hug when I told her about my parents’ death wasn’t just truly comfort. . .it was combustion. Her arms around me, her breath brushing my ear, the soft press of her soft full breasts against my chest.
It all rewired me.
It made me want to bury my cock in her, to trade every wound I’d ever carried for another second in that hold.
Sometimes when I watched Teyonah spend time with her sons, I wanted those hands that smoothed their hair to grip my shoulders and dig crescents into my skin.
I wanted the arms that carried groceries, her briefcase, and stress to wrap around my neck, pulling me deeper into her body until she forgot the world.
I wanted her tenderness erotically weaponized, turned into moans, into scratches, into proof that she was mine.
What am I doing? I have to stop thinking of her this way.
But I couldn’t.
When she had hugged me that first time, she probably thought she was being kind. But kindness had never felt so filthy. I’d closed my eyes and breathed her in, and I swear my cock twitched even then, shameless, betraying me.
And some mornings when her fingers brushed mine across the breakfast table, it made me want to drag her hand down under the wood, press it against my thick cock straining in my jeans, and make her feel what she’d done to me without even knowing.
Her touch was never just touch.
It was a promise she hadn’t meant to make.
And I wanted to collect.
This isn’t healthy. Stop it. You can never have her.
Sighing, I turned around, sneaked a peek at them through the window again, and pressed my forehead to the cold glass, breathing hard.
Thank God it was nice and dark where she couldn’t see me.
Inside, she leaned forward at the table, laughing at something Oliver said, her red blouse tugging across her full cleavage. My gaze dropped lower, tracing the roundness of her stomach and the swell of her hips where her skirt stretched just a little too tight.
God, my cock throbbed.
My palm slid against the cold glass, and for one reckless second, I pretended it was her skin. I traced the curve of her through the window, my cock jerking hard as if it recognized her body before my mind could stop it.
The glass fogged with my breath as if I were kissing her through it. My chest heaved like I’d already stolen what wasn’t mine.
Mmmm.
I shouldn’t have wanted her like this, not here, not while her sons sat beside her. Not while I was supposed to be the polite tenant and the every now and then helpful babysitter.
But no matter what any psychology textbook said, I couldn’t stop thinking that. . .this wasn’t just a diagnosis.
It was desire.
And desire had teeth.
The kids took their seats.
She sat down next to them.
Against all logic, I kept my focus on her, and my cock strained so hard against my slacks I had to shift my weight, grinding the ache away from the glass.
