I can't help but smile. He asked me to close them once, and I never did. This past week was the only exception. However, even then, closing them revolved around him. I couldn't leave them open and let him see that I was sleeping in his old shirts because I missed him.
Laney: I need to put lotion on after my shower. It's not a show for you.
Fighting sucks, but the making-up part is fun. Like now, when I know he's probably over there biting his fist to temper his reaction to the images I know are flashing vividly across his mind.
London: Could've fooled me with the way you were looking right at my window last night.
Laney: That's because you were being so obvious about staring.
London: Like I said, it's hard to focus when you're putting on a performance.
Laney: It's not a performance. Maybe I just like attention.
London: Then come over here, and you can have all of it.
Laney: Tempting…but I still need to moisturize.
This time, I toss my phone onto my bed across the room. With the jar of body butter in hand, I settle onto the edge of my bed and prop my leg up on the cushioned ottoman near the foot. Starting at my ankle, I apply the butter in slow, deliberate strokes, my fingers tracing every curve as I move up my calf and finally to my thigh, where I linger, kneading the muscle with a firm pressure that makes me sigh.
This might have started as a show for the boy next door, but it's quickly becoming something more. The day's tension is ebbing, and I can't deny how good it feels to touch myself this way. It's a fact that massages release endorphins. They're natural mood boosters, but the rush I get knowing he's watching me from across the way...that's something else entirely.
I lift his shirt over my stomach, but I don't remove itcompletely. It smells like him. I warm the butter between my hands before splaying my fingers over my stomach and hips. The combination of my own touch, his scent, and his burning gaze sends heat pooling low in my belly. My hand begins to drift lower without conscious thought.
What began as innocent teasing, matching his earlier display, has me hungry for more. My fingers trail over my heated skin, and suddenly, I'm aching with need. It's been days since he was last inside me, days since I felt the perfect connection that exists when our bodies are intertwined. My hand slides over my underwear, one finger tracing my center through the thin fabric before I pull the material aside. The first touch of skin on skin makes me gasp, and I let my middle finger glide through my wetness. Spreading my legs wider, I brace one arm behind me and let my head fall back with a slow, breathy moan.
The tension I've been carrying melts away as my thumb finds that sensitive bundle of nerves, stroking in slow, deliberate circles that make my toes curl. I know exactly what I need and can feel my body climbing toward that perfect release, but just as my fingers prepare to dive deeper, a sharp knock slices through the air.
I don't need to look to know who I'll find there, and a satisfied smile curves my lips. I was wondering if he'd stay put like a good boy, if he'd touch himself while watching my private show, or if temptation would finally break his restraint and drive him to my window. When our eyes connect, his eyebrows are raised slightly, as if he wasn't entirely sure I'd actually dignify his presence with a glance. But there's also something vulnerable in his expression. He nods toward the latch, and I reach across my bed to flip it open, my pulse quickening.
He lifts the window, and I ask, "What are you doing?"
"Looked like you were trying to get my attention. I'm just making sure you know you have all of it," he says with a lopsided grin. "Can I come in?" I nod and watch as he climbs through, his broad shoulders barely fitting through the frame. "I think thatwindow got smaller," he teases, glancing back at the opening with a rueful smile that makes my heart clench with bittersweet familiarity.
"Or you got bigger." I let my eyes trace the way his old t-shirt now stretches tight across his back, emphasizing muscles that weren't there before. "We're not eighteen anymore." The reminder hangs between us, heavy with everything that's changed, everything we've lost. "Is there something you wanted? Because I was in the middle of?—"
"Yeah, I saw what you were in the middle of." His voice drops, rougher now, and he gestures toward his joggers, where the evidence of his reaction to my "little show" is impossible to ignore as it strains against the fabric. "That's why I stopped you."
I furrow my brow, confusion cutting through the haze of desire unfurling inside of me. "I don't understand?—"
The words die in my throat as he drops to his knees before me, and his playful confidence is replaced with vulnerability.
"I don't want you to replace me." His hands settle on my thighs, warm and steady despite the tremor I can feel beneath his skin. "If you have needs…" His voice cracks slightly on the word, and he swallows hard before continuing. "I want to take care of them."
I've dreamed of his touch for days, craved it with an intensity that bordered on madness. But this isn't the sensual reunion I imagined in my fantasies. This is something rawer, more desperate. His hands on my skin aren't a seduction. They're an anchor. This is a plea wrapped in desperation. He's on his knees, begging me not to erase him from my body the way I tried to erase him from my heart.
But what he doesn't understand, what breaks something inside me as I look down at him, is that I never could. I may have pushed him away, needing the space to heal from wounds that felt too deep to survive, but I haven't explored this. I haven't wanted to—not without him. This is the first time in days I've felt this way, andI know it's because his eyes were watching my every move, spurring me on.
The sleepless nights we've spent apart have hollowed him out and stolen every last shred of his willpower as he's waited for whatever we're supposed to become. This space between us has been killing him slowly, one lonely night at a time. He can't wait anymore, and neither can I.
His thumbs pause their gentle movement, and he takes a shaky breath before meeting my gaze. "I've been dying to put my hands on you again," he admits, his voice filled with raw honesty and desire. "Please don't make me stop."
"I've been dying for you to touch me," I whisper back, my voice just as honest. "I don't want you to stop. I never wanted you to stop."
His hands burn a slow path up my thighs as his eyes stay locked on mine. When his touch disappears under my shirt, my body comes alive. He hasn't touched me intimately since finding out about the baby. The slow push as his hands travel higher exposes the gentle curve of my stomach. His breath catches, and my chest tightens as his eyes drop to the slight swell he hasn't seen up close—the evidence of what's growing inside me. Our baby.
When his gaze lifts to meet mine, something fundamental shifts in his expression. The desperation is still there, but it's tempered now by something more profound. One hand spreads flat against my stomach, fingers splaying wide. His touch is achingly gentle.
"God," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "You're really… We're really…"
