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And my brain—because it’s a fucking traitor—immediately fills in the rest.

She’s using one of the toys.

I roll to my back, stare at the ceiling, and will my body to calm down, but that’s a lost cause. I can’t unhear it. I can’t unknow what she’s doing. Using whatIgave her.

Jesus fuck, Finn. What were you thinking, man?

And it. Just. Keeps. Going.

Her breath catches and releases again. My hand moves without asking for permission. I press the palm of it against the front of my sweatpants and drag it down slowly, but that does nothing to help.

I gave her the damn bag. Itoldher to explore. Thought I was being supportive. Progressive, even. “You deserve to figure out what you like,” I had said, patting myself on the back like some kind of sex-positive fairy god-bro.

And now here I am, rock hard in my bed listening to this girl get off for the first time like some kind of fucking pervert. She’s in her mid-twenties. Maybe. Which is much,muchyounger than my forty years. It makes this so much worse.

Doesn’t stop me, though.

My brain is conjuring up images of her with her legs drawn up and her mouth open, and the exact shape her fingers might make when they hold that tiny toy steady. How she might move, careful at first, then desperate. I think about what her face might look like when she comes.

I can’t take it anymore.

I feel sick and perverted as I reach down and push past the waistband of my sweats, curling my fingers around myself. I wrap my fist tight and pull once, slowly, from base to tip. Pleasure shoots straight through my core. My hips shift against the mattress.

Her voice breaks again through the wall—so soft I almost think I imagined it.

I stroke again. Then again. My thumb slips over the head, gathering the precum leaking there, and my thighs go tense. My hand moves faster now, pumping with enough force to make the bed creak under me.

I’m not proud of this.

She’s been through hell. A burned-out motel, no phone, no clothes, no money. A runaway bride, scared out of her mind. And what do I do? I jerk off to the sound of her discovering what pleasure feels like for the first time.

Real nice, Finn.

I can’t stop picturing her. I see her wearing that soft, dazed look people get when they’re right on the edge of letting go. I imagine her biting her lip to keep quiet. That little gasp she made just now—oh my fucking god.

My wrist stutters. I lose rhythm for half a second, then catch it again. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep quiet and picture the way she wouldn’t meet my eyes when I handed her that bag. The way she looked at the dildo like it might grow teeth and bite her.

Another soft noise comes through the wall—this one higher and cut short, like she tried to smother it.

I lose it.

My grip tightens. I’m so close, while I’m listening to the sound of her unraveling on the other side of the wall.

My body locks up as it hits. The orgasm tears through me. I grind into my hand, groan low into my pillow, and finish hard enough to leave my legs twitching.

I grab a tissue from the nightstand and clean up.

Then I roll to the side, pull the blanket over my head, and stare into the dark.

I feel horrible now. But it was also so fucking hot. Not because of the obvious. Because I knew she’d never orgasmed before. This was an awakening and an undoing, and I had a hand in that.

I shift onto my stomach, shove my pillow down under my arm, and close my eyes.

I’ll deal with the guilt tomorrow.

Right now, all I can do is pretend I didn’t fall half in love with a woman I’ve known for less than two days just because I heard her learn how to pleasure herself for the first time.

I get up early, but not because I’m trying to be productive. I just don’t want to be in that bed any longer, staring at the same ceiling where I crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. I keep thinking a shower will help. It doesn’t. By the time I’m dressed and in the kitchen, the house is still mostly quiet.