I throw my head back on the pillow as my body attempts to calm down from what I just went through. I thought it was a very realistic dream, yet it felt so real because it was real. It was his hand caressing me, pinching my nipple. It was his hard-on behind me and his breath on my neck. It was all real, and God, do I wish I was in that shower with him.
More than that, I wish he was still in this bed, finishing what we started.
I drape my hand over my eyes and take deep breaths. You’re fine.
But I’m really not.
I’m fired up.
I’m needy.
My desire for this man is so strong that I can taste it.
It’s why I couldn’t stop myself from hugging him before he left for his away trip. It’s why I couldn’t stop reading the card he sent with the flowers. It’s why when I watched the game, I begged and pleaded with the cameras to focus on him, to show me any glimpse I could get. And late at night, it’s why I watch TikToks on the team’s account that focuses mainly on him.
It’s why I couldn’t wait for him to come home. Win or lose, I just wanted him. And when he did come home, I wanted so much more than a hug, but I knew it was all I could ask for, so I took it, relishing in the way my cheek felt pressed against his bare chest.
And then my vulnerability took over, and before I could stop myself, I asked him to cuddle me. I thought he’d say no. I thought he’d deny me, but he didn’t. Instead, he wrapped himself around me, and I curled into his large body. I’ve never felt so comfortable in my life, and I fell asleep before I could even take my next breath.
When I woke up this morning to his hands all over me, he almost gave me exactly what I needed. It’s branded in my brain, the way his hand cascaded down my stomach and almost beneath my shorts. The feel of his dexterous fingers toying with my nipple, and the way he pressed his pelvis into me, showing me how turned on he was. God . . . why couldn’t we finish?
My teeth roll over my lip as I slowly lower my hand between my legs to feel how aroused I am. So, I start moving my fingers over my clit. My legs spread even wider, and I bring my other hand to my breast, trying to recreate how he played with my nipples.
In the distance, I hear the shower spray against the tile, and I envision him naked, droplets of water cascading down his rock-hard chest, all the way to his length where his hand is pumping vigorously, seeking that release I’m seeking as well.
A groan escapes me as I wiggle against my hand, searching . . .
Sweat forms on my upper lip as my body tenses, the motion of my fingers bringing me to a much-needed apex. And that’s when I hear it, his guttural groan from behind the closed bathroom door and then a hand slap to the wall.
He’s coming.
In the shower. Right now.
He’s coming to the thought of us, to what we did, in this bed.
That’s all it takes. The image of him hunched over, spilling himself onto the shower floor.
My muscles tense, and a delicious, much-needed orgasm rips through me. My back arches, and my fingers fly over my clit over and over, pulling every last ounce of pleasure from my bones until I’m completely sated and out of breath.
I remove my hand and melt into the mattress.
Although I took care of my present need, I know it wasn’t what my body wanted or desired.
I want him.
His cock.
His mouth.
His body writhing and pulsing over mine.
And then it hits me . . . very clearly, something that’s been building for a while.
I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my distance.
And right now? I have no idea why I should.
“Knockity, knock, knock,” Blakely says from the doorway of my office. She’s holding a takeout bag from our favorite salad place and a drink carrier with lemonades—a drink I’ve never truly cared about until this pregnancy. Now, all I want is lemonade.
All the time.
“Hey,” I say while looking up from my computer. “Let me finish this email real quick.”
“Sure thing. Want me to shut the door?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice laced with desperation.
“That yes has some meaning behind it, and given the fact that the boys got home last night, I’m guessing there has to be something in that beautiful brain of yours that you need to tell me.”
“You are correct.”
While I finish typing, Blakely shuts the door and sets up lunch for us at my desk before taking the seat across from me. We both ordered the southwestern chicken salad with extra guacamole. It’s a go-to for us that we nearly get it once a week.
I press send, and then I turn toward her. “He felt up my boobs this morning.”