You’re fucking beautiful.
I sit up with a sigh. The room is too warm. Feeling flushed seems like it might be becoming my base state, if the last couple of days have been any indication.
“Damn it,” I grumble to the air.
I think it’s probably a smart move to grab my （hopefully） dry scrubs from Noah’s dryer and start getting ready for work—and I have every intention of doing that. At least, until I get two steps from the bed, and my foot hits Noah’s dress shirt he’d shucked off last night. I pick it up with only a little hesitation, biting at my lip as I test its weight.
I picked it up with mostly innocent intentions, running my fingers over one sleeve and caressing the fabric that feels too fine, too pretty for me. I can imagine that same material wrapped around his bicep, curling my fingers there to hold on as he pulls me closer, as his mouth descends to—
I shake away the thought, startled. I don’t pine for anyone, and yet here I am waxing poetic in my head about a fucking shirt. What the hell is wrong with me today? Even as I scold myself, I can smell the material still in my hands, tempting me. It smells like detergent and the clinging bit of Noah’s scent—something fresh and masculine that makes me want more. It isn’t even a conscious thing when I press the fabric against my nostrils and breathe in deep. It’s become somehow thicker since we first agreed to all this, even the faded bit clinging to his shirt from yesterday is enough to make my eyes roll back.
I feel a prickling sensation in my skin, like it’s being stretched too tight—the tingling feeling becoming almost uncomfortable as the throbbing between my legs worsens. How can I be horny again after spending most of the night losing sleep with Noah? What’s worse—despite having just spent an hour soaking in Noah’s too-large tub, I can feel a bit of slick trickling out to wet my thighs. Almost like my body is hoping he’ll pop out of the closet and come take care of us.
You said you wouldn’t get all dickmatized, I remind myself. Remember, this is all temporary.
The thought sobers me a little but does nothing for the throbbing between my legs.
I push my fingers inside one sleeve to feel the soft material against my skin, tempted briefly to put it on, to feel its weight on my shoulders like an embrace.
Too tempted, as it turns out.
I drop my towel as I push my arms into both long sleeves, my body almost sighing with relief when I am fully enveloped in the scent of him. I can’t explain it, can’t even begin to make sense of it—but being wrapped up in something of Noah’s seems to soothe that odd sensation in my skin. Almost like it’s calming me.
It’s probably a bad idea （not to mention uncouth） to touch myself in Noah’s bed while he’s away, but I reason that it’s his fault that I’m so worked up only an hour before my shift starts, so that assuages my guilt a little. It makes it a lot easier to crawl back into his bed wearing nothing but his shirt.
Like this, the smell of him is more overwhelming, giving me the illusion of pressing my nose to his chest, his throat, maybe. I close my eyes as I imagine thick arms wrapped around me; an innocent fantasy, really, but the effect it has on me less so. I press my thighs together as I imagine his weight settling over me, as I imagine that same scent of him surrounding me as he pushes me into this big, big bed of his—and it’s easy, wrapped in his shirt, to remember how he covers me. He’s so big, after all.
My throat is dry now, and there’s an obvious slickness between my legs forcing me to spread them a little just to ease the sensation. A mistake, I realize, given that I’ve somehow become wet enough just from imagining him touching me for it to make the inner creases sticky.
My heart rate picks up a dozen beats or so as I again press my nose against the soft fabric of his shirt to breathe him in—and my fingers just graze below my navel from beneath the ends of his sleeves. There’s a heavy throbbing between my legs now, some strange ball of heat in my belly that threatens to spread into my limbs.
I bite at my lower lip as I attempt to swallow, but there’s a lump there now that makes it difficult. I rub my wrist against my belly until the sleeve bunches enough to allow my fingers to delve between slick folds, gasping when they slide across the rapidly swelling bud of my clit.
I hiss between my teeth when I apply a slight pressure, an immediate zing of pleasure that melds with the odd relief Noah’s scent brings to nearly steal my breath. My body rolls until my face presses to his comforter, lying on my side with my nose buried against my shoulder. I keep my eyes shut tight, breathing in deep so that I can pretend he’s here, that he’s touching me.