Page 32 of Until the Storm Breaks

I freeze, one hand on my belt. She’s in there, naked, water running over her. My cock throbs painfully, already aching from outside.

I throw my wet clothes in the laundry hamper, trying not to think about what’s happening on the other side of that wall. The shower runs forever. Or maybe it just feels that way when every drop of water makes me picture her hands sliding over her skin.

When she finally finishes, I wait until her door closes before heading to the bathroom. The air is thick with steam and her scent—vanilla and something sweet that makes me want to follow her into her room and bury my face in her neck.

Cold shower. Ice cold. I stand under it with my palms flat against the tile, counting backwards from one hundred until I can think past the need coursing through me.

I can hear her through the wall. A soft thud like she’s thrown herself on her bed. Then silence.

I stare at the ceiling, still hard, still frustrated. That moment outside keeps playing on repeat: her moving into me, then pulling back. Through the wall, her bed creaks as she shifts. I wonder if she’s thinking about it too. Or if she’s already forgotten, moved on.

I adjust myself in my boxers, grimacing at how worked up I am over an almost-touch. This is ridiculous. I’m thirty-five, not seventeen. Tomorrow I need to focus on the house. All the practical shit that actually matters. Not obsessing over my neighbor.

But I can’t forget the way she said my name out there. Soft and breathless. I’m fucking desperate to hear her scream it. To find out what she tastes like, what makes her lose control, how many times I can make her come.

I’m aching for release. I grip myself, stroke once while imagining her mouth on my cock, then force myself to let go. I’m trying to be a gentleman here, or at least something resembling one. She pulled away. That means something.

So I lie there instead, uncomfortable and awake, trying not to think about what would have happened if she hadn’t stepped back. Trying not to imagine her mouth, her hands, the sounds she might make.

Fuck. This is going to be a long night.

CHAPTER 9

MAREN

I wake up at nine, my body pulsing and wet from a dream about Calvin.

For a second I just lie there, disoriented, still feeling phantom hands on my skin, his mouth on places he’s never actually touched. The dream was so vivid I can still feel the heat of him, still hear the way he said my name like a prayer.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to push the images away. But they keep coming. Dream-Calvin looking up at me from between my legs, real-Calvin stepping closer to me last night, the intensity in his eyes when he looked at me.

God, what is wrong with me? I’m having pornographic dreams about my neighbor who I literally ran away from.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Multiple notifications. I already know who it is before I look, but I reach over anyway.

Lark. She’d started texting last night the second she heard Calvin Midnight was at the bar. Dark River’s gossip network works faster than the internet sometimes.

I scroll through the messages, smiling despite myself. She’s nothing if not persistent.

Lark (10:47 PM):WHAT DO YOU MEAN CALVIN IS BARTENDING

Lark (10:48 PM):THE ACTUAL CALVIN MIDNIGHT???

Lark (10:59 PM):Mare I swear to god if you don’t give me details

Lark (11:12 PM):Are you ignoring me because you’re busy with him???

Lark (12:22 AM):USE PROTECTION BUT ALSO TELL ME EVERYTHING

I’d finally replied while Calvin and I walked home just to stop her from blowing up my phone. Told her nothing was happening, that he’d just helped during the rush. When Calvin asked what she’d said, I’d fibbed and told him she was just passing along thanks for covering.

There are six new messages from this morning.

Lark (7:23 AM):So did you bang him or not

Lark (7:45 AM):I’m going to assume silence means yes

Lark (8:15 AM):There’s a TikTok about him that has 2 million views