They were fucking her.
Right there. In the open.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.
There was nothing performative about it. They hadn’t even realized they had an audience.
I saw everything.
The way Ivy’s head fell back when Rhett whispered something in her ear. The way Hunter’s hand fisted in her hair. The sounds she made. The way she gripped the balcony edge as if it was the only thing tethering her to earth.
I should have looked away.
But I didn’t.
I watched until she came. Until they pulled her inside. Until the door slid shut behind them and all I was left with was the imprint of her body scorched into the dark.
I stand here now, palm braced on the same railing, and it’s like I can still feel it. Hear it. That broken little moan. The sigh of surrender.
I breathe in through my nose, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
She’s just a neighbor.
Just a woman.
But something about her has been sitting in my bloodstream like a virus.
I head inside, slam the balcony door behind me, and stalk down the hallway to my bedroom. I should take a cold shower.
I turn it on and strip.
I hate this. I hate how much of her I remember. I hate that my body doesn’t care she’s sleeping with two of the players. That she’s clearly tangled up in something complicated and messy and not at all what I need.
But all I can see when I close my eyes is her flushed face. Those sexy-as-hell bikini bottoms and the tremble in her legs when Hunter pressed his hand between her thighs.
I step under the spray and grab the soap, hoping to scrub the memory off my skin. But it’s burned in too deep.
Bracing one arm against the tile wall, I lean my forehead into the crook of my elbow and wrap a hand around myself.
It’s not romantic.
It’s not slow.
I jerk hard and fast, frustration tangled in every stroke.
I imagine her. Ivy. Not in lingerie. Not in anything fancy. Just barefoot in that oversized jersey. Mouth swollen from kissing. Her voice low and teasing. Her eyes fixed on mine like she’s trying to figure out why I won’t look away.
I picture her climbing on top of me, her thighs warm around my waist, hair falling over my chest as she sinks down slow. Her teeth tugging at her lip, her breath stuttering against my jaw.
I come with a sharp groan, chest caving forward, head dropping low. I rinse off quickly, still cursing under my breath.
It didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse.
She’s still there, in my head, tangled up in my senses.
And I don’t even know her. All I know is that she’s distracting and infuriating and impossible to ignore.
I towel off, drag on sweatpants, and pace the length of my apartment. Everything feels too clean. Too still. The kind of still that amplifies whatever noise is clanging inside your own skull.
