Page 21 of Ten Day Affair

It doesn’t.

I turn onto my side, then my back again. Flip the pillow. Toss the sheet off, pull it back on. My legs arerestless, my brain won’t quit, and my body is thrumming like it’s still under his hands.

The clock on my nightstand glows 3:17 AM. It's bright, judgy. Unforgiving.

It's not the pillow's fault, or my position, or the sheet on or off. It's the memory of Cole's hands that keeps me awake, the ghost of his touch haunting my skin.

I close my eyes, and there he is, the intensity in his gaze as he watched me, the confident path his fingers traced.

My breath catches in my throat. The sheets tangle around my legs as I shift again, a warmth building low in my belly that has nothing to do with the Florida heat.

I guess I need a little help with sleep. I let out a shaky breath as my hand slides down, for the second night in a row.

Give myself just a little help, just enough to chase the edge off and turn off my brain.

The first brush over my center sends a jolt through me. I’m already soaked.

I draw small circles, my breath hitching with every pass. I tease myself like he did, dragging it out, building the ache until I’m squirming. My thighs squeeze together, chasing more friction, more pressure.

I press harder, rubbing faster, my breaths coming shallow and sharp. I raise my knees, press my feet into the bed, and lift my hips.

My free hand fists the sheet. All I can think about is the heat of his mouth between my legs, the weight of his body pinning mine.

I slip two fingers inside, slow and deep. My lips part in a silent gasp. The stretch burns just enough to make me whimper. I push again, then again, curling just right, the heel of my hand grinding against my clit with every thrust.

He’s in my head, whispering filthy things. Mine. "You like when I touch you like this? Say it."

My hips buck. My legs shake. I bite down on a moan, but it still escapes.

It builds and builds and breaks all at once. I arch off the bed as the orgasm crashes through me, sharp and hot, like a dam finally bursting.

When it fades, I stay still, fingers still buried, skin flushed and damp. My breath comes in slow, uneven waves.

“Fuck,” I whisper, eyes squeezed shut as I picture his face above me.

For a few perfect seconds, everything goes quiet—my mind, my doubts, my fears. Then reality settles back in as my breathing evens out. I stare at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, both satisfied and hollow.

I've never been this person. The one who fantasizes about a man she barely knows. The one who replays every second of a hookup like it meant something more.

I grab my second pillow and slide it between my legs, letting the pressure carry me a little longer.

I'm drowning in hospital responsibilities, fighting to prove I’m worthy of my mother’s legacy. The last thing I need is a distraction like Cole Houston—especially one who sits on the hospital board.

My eyelids finally grow heavy around 4 a.m., and I drift toward sleep with his face still floating in my mind... and the imagined weight of his thigh between mine.

The alarm blaresfar too soon, yanking me out of a dream where Cole’s hands were finishing what mine hadstarted. I groan, slap the snooze button, and force myself upright.

By the time I drag into the elevator at the hospital parking garage, I’m half-awake at best.

I punch the button for the surgical floor and lean against the wall, grateful for a moment of silence. My hair’s a mess, the circles under my eyes are brutal, and no amount of concealer could make me look less terrifying.

I'm a third-year resident. I should be getting more sleep at this point.

Three hours of sleep. That’s what I get for internet-stalking a billionaire… and everything else.

A yawn escapes as the elevator dings. I straighten my shoulders, mentally shifting into doctor mode despite my exhaustion.

The hospital corridor bustles with the familiar morning rhythm. Nurses are changing shifts, patients are being wheeled from here to there, and the constant beeping of monitors is like white noise.