Alexander
I'd always considered myself a man of control. The kind of man who could keep his emotions, his desires, locked away where they couldn't disturb me—or anyone else. It was one of the few things I still had left after the accident. But the moment she walked out of the bathroom, that control flew straight out the window.
She was wearing a damn slip. That barely-there thing clung to her body in a way that should have been illegal, like it had been made specifically to drive me crazy. The slip didn't just outline her figure; it defined it. It was delicate, almost translucent, with thin straps that made her shoulders seem impossibly fragile. The length was teasing, long enough to leave everything to the imagination but just short enough to remind me of what I couldn't have. My gaze involuntarily dipped, just for a moment, just enough for my mind to catch up with what my body had already understood.
Her legs, her waist, the way her breasts almost spilled out.
God, I could hardly breathe.
Her gaze met mine for a brief moment—almost shy, almost hesitant—and I saw her cheeks flush a shade of red that made my body feel like it was on fire. But my reaction? It was anything but subtle. I felt the heat coil low in my stomach. I felt the tightening in my chest, the pulse in my groin that I hadn't experienced in so long I had almost forgotten what it was like to be alive in that way.
I had a hard-on. And it hadn't been like this in months. Hell, I wasn't even sure I could still feel attraction the way I once had. The doctor had told me everything was fine but I hadn't believed him. The accident, the pain, the loss... all of it had dulled my senses. Not until now.
It was as though my body had come back to life in a way I wasn't ready for.
I cleared my throat, hoping my voice wouldn't betray me.
"I'll take my turn now," I said, my words rougher than I intended. The words were supposed to sound casual, like any other request, but they came out strained, as if they couldn't escape my throat fast enough.
I turned quickly, wheeling myself toward the bathroom. I could still feel her eyes on me, and I hated that I couldn't look at her longer.
I needed to escape.
I shut the door behind me with more force than I meant to. The sound of the latch clicking felt like a confirmation that I was, in fact, trapped. Trapped in my own body, trapped in my own thoughts.
I closed my eyes, leaning over the bathroom counter as I tried to gather control. My hands were trembling, and I could feel the blood rushing to places that shouldn't be stirring after everything that had happened. But no matter how hard I tried to calm myself, her image filled my mind. Her in that slip. The way it hugged her skin, how delicate it seemed, and how utterly out of place it felt in this cold, contractual arrangement we had.
I tried to focus on anything else—anything other than the feeling of my body responding to her. But it was useless. The ache in my groin was undeniable.
I didn't waste any more time with my thoughts. I needed release. I grabbed my pants, tore them off and found myself giving into the desire and frustration. The thoughts of her were all-consuming. Her scent, that subtle perfume she wore, the way her eyes held a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. I couldn't help it. I touched myself to images of her playing in my mind—Of her standing in that slip, exposed but not knowing how much she was driving me to the edge.
I tried to control it—I had to control it— but when I finally came, I was panting, desperate and overwhelmed by the heat of it all. I leaned against the sink, trying to steady myself, my hand gripping the porcelain as I breathed deeply. There was no way this could happen again. No way I could let myself get affected by her like this again. I knew I had to pull myself together. This wasn't who I was. I didn't act on impulses. Not anymore.
I quickly splashed cold water on my face, trying to wipe away the guilt that clung to me. My heart was still pounding and the only thing that calmed me was the idea of putting distance between her and myself.
When I came back to the room, she was lying on the bed, but I could tell she wasn't asleep. She was stiff, tense in a way that only made my guilt gnaw at me harder. She wasn't completely unaware of the tension, and somehow, that made everything feel worse.
The room was too quiet.
I reached for the water on the bedside table, desperate for something to do, to occupy my hands, to stop myself from thinking. But as soon as I moved, the chair slipped—nothing dramatic, just a twist of the wheels—and the bottle fell, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
For a moment, everything froze.
I heard her shift in the bed, the rustle of the sheets as she rose quickly to her feet. "Don't." I said sharper than I intended to. "I can handle it."
She didn't listen. She was there in an instant, bending down to grab the bottle. "It's fine. " The back of her hand brushed my leg as she did and something in me stirred again. The rush of it, the intensity, had me holding my breath.
When she handed me the water bottle, I didn't take it immediately. My gaze met hers, and for a brief moment, I considered telling her to stop. To stop fussing over me, stop looking at me like I was some fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch. But as I saw the softness in her eyes, the words caught in my throat.
I sighed, the tension in my shoulders loosening against my will. "Thanks," I muttered, taking the bottle from her hand.
She stepped back almost immediately, as though giving me space was the solution to whatever unspoken war was brewing between us. I should have left it at that—taken the water, stayed silent, and let the quiet fill the room again. But her constant attempt to shrink herself around me pushed me to speak.
"You don't have to… tiptoe around me, you know," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "I'm not made of glass."
Her reaction wasn't what I expected. She didn't flinch, didn't offer some placating excuse. Instead, her expression shifted and her quiet reply caught me off guard.
"I'm not tiptoeing," she said, her voice soft but firm. "I just… don't know what to do."
The honesty in her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I'd been so wrapped up in my own bitterness, my own frustrations, that I hadn't considered how hard this must be for her, too.
I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw past the nervous movements and careful words. She wasn't just walking on eggshells around me—she was lost, as unsure of this situation as I was.
"Neither do I," I admitted, the words slipping out before I could stop them. They felt raw, exposed, but strangely freeing.
She didn't say anything, didn't press or try to comfort me. She just stood there, watching me like she understood, even if she didn't have the words to say it.
I turned my chair toward the couch, signaling the end of the conversation. I couldn't look at her any longer, couldn't face the unspoken connection growing between us. It was too much, too soon, and I wasn't ready to confront what it meant.