I'm pacing around the hotel bed room like a caged animal, my skin burning as though I'm on fire. Every nerve in my body is alive, buzzing with a need I can't suppress, no matter how much I try.
Finally, I retreat to the bathroom, hoping the cold water will shock some sense into me. I splash it onto my face, gasping at the chill, but it doesn't help. The ache—the unbearable, all-consuming ache—still pulses through me, stronger than ever.
My underwear is damp, my thighs clenching together as though that might quell the unbearable tension. It doesn't. It only makes it worse.
Why did I ask him to stop? The question keeps replaying in my head like a cruel taunt. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I grip the edge of the sink, staring at the water dripping down my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, my lips swollen, my hair a mess. I look scandalous, reckless, like someone who's teetering on the edge of a bad decision.
No, not bad—dangerous.
