Page 22 of Touch Me

Honestly, he’s probably more embarrassed than I am. And it’s not like he’s going to talk to me. No use in staying cooped up in here to avoid confrontation when he’s most likely going to be hiding from me all day anyway.

I’ll just make breakfast and get some research done for an article I’m working on—do I use the desk in here, the office upstairs, or somewhere else? I don’t even have a window in here, and Jace is upstairs in the gym. I’m not risking running into him on the stairs.

With my luck, the deity I’ve angered will make a boob pop out or something. Maybe I’ll take my breakfast out on the terrace and work. I need the distraction, and I really want to land this job. My articles have to be top-notch.

Something has to go right for me at some point, right?

SEVEN

I NEED TO BREATHE

Sweat poursoff my face as I rack the squat bar back in place. Even with music pounding in my ears and a workout so tortuous my legs are trembling, I still can’t get the image of Cassie using that... thing in the shower out of my head. I didn’t even see the show with my own eyes, and my cock went hard as stone. Her tight-ass body all wet and slippery as she makes herself come right down the hall from me.

She’s going to kill me.

No doubt about it. I’ll never survive with my dick or my pride intact.

I designed my home to resemble a small city; everything I may need, with the exception of food, at my disposal. I did not, however, plan to be locked away in my room, avoiding my dream girl for months so my cock doesn’t explode. My room is not a bomb shelter. It's not like I can have Postmates delivered to my bedroom.

Can I?

What good is that going to do? I asked her to stay to help me learn how to fix my issues. I can’t do that from my bedroom. And honestly, it doesn’t even matter if she’s in the same room. Just knowing she’s here is enough to get the blood flowing south.

But seeing her with that toy, and knowing exactly what she was doing moments before she ran into me, knowing the hands that touched me were all over herself just minutes before... I don’t know how much of that I can handle.

Maybe I can turn this into a learning experience. Train my dick to fucking listen to me when I saydown boy. That would be a handy trick. Usually, I just do my best to avoid situations like this, but I can’t avoid her. She is Right. Fucking. Here. And I already told her I needed her help, so I can’t ignore her without looking like a complete dickhead.

I’ve accidentally touched her more times in the last twenty-four hours than I’ve touched anyone in the last several years. And what do I do? I run away without an explanation.

What a tool.

She probably thinks I’m absolutely crazy. So, do I tell her? Tell her what happens when my skin even grazes another person? Tell her how my blood boils, and my body starts to hum with vibrations?

Yeah, that’ll explain away the crazy.

But I can’tnottell her. I don’t want her to think it has anything to do with her. Just looking at her smooth, silky skin is enough to make me want to wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her neck.

This is torture.

Maybe she can help me get over my issues with touch. Like a desensitizing experiment. Yes,yes,that could work. Maybe repeated exposure will lessen the negative response. Do I tell her or just try it on my own? It’s not unusual for people to touch, right? So, I’ll try it a couple of times. If I do it intentionally, maybe the sensations won’t be such a shock.

Resigned to my new plan, I shower quickly and find Cassie out on the terrace with a half-eaten breakfast and her laptop in front of her. She has her bare feet propped on a chair, and her head is tipped back, eyes closed, soaking up the sun. The breeze lifts the wispy hairs around her face, and the sun shines off her bronzed skin.

I envy her ability to deal with her shit and still be able to relax and enjoy a moment. I don’t think there was ever a day in my life I could do that. With her whirlwind of a weekend, I don’t know how she does it. Maybe she has gone through some desensitizing of her own.

To go through what she has been through–shitty home life, even shittier parents, no help from anyone, and now bunking with me because she literally has nowhere to go–and still have the drive and confidence to go after a career that calls to her? That takes some thick skin. Thick skin developed from years of brushing off neglect and feelings of worthlessness. I don’t know how she walks around with a smile on her face and just keeps going, but she does.

She fucking does.

I open the fridge for a bottle of water and see a sticky note that reads:

Breakfast is in the microwave, just hit start!

I walk to the microwave and it's already set, so I do as instructed. After the beep, I take out an omelet with mushrooms, spinach, and cheese and two pieces of toast stacked on the plate in the shape of a tepee.

God, she is fucking adorable.

With a smile on my face, that I don’t even attempt to hide, I open the sliding door. Feeling a sudden warmth heat my skin, I take a stuttered step wondering whether it’s her or the sun. Let’s not add another spoke on the crazy wheel there, bud.

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