Page 37 of Yearn

My cock still stood thick, angry, and dripping.

I didn’t even bother to hide it. I just dragged the towel down from the rack and wrapped it around my waist, the terrycloth bulging where the length pushed out against it.

I stepped out of the steam, leaving wet footprints across the floor.

You do realize that you are hard for a woman you shouldn’t even want. She’s probably thinking about how she is going to kick me out, due to catching me jacking my cock.

I grunted.

I wouldn’t leave. I couldn’t. I was too obsessed with her to move out. I would find a way to stay, even if she wanted me to go.

My hand twitched, ready to reach down, touch my cock, and finish it—but I forced it away, clenching my fingers into a fist at my side.

I’d rather ache for the real thing than betray myself with just fake imaginings.

Still, when I caught my reflection in the mirror—hair plastered dark to my forehead, wet muscles, chest heaving, towel straining under my cock—I almost didn’t recognize the lust-filled deranged man staring back.

I looked like an animal on the edge of breaking.

And all because of her.

Get a beer and get some rest. You have to focus on the one goal that has always kept us balanced.

It hit me then.

Soon it would be the end of my second year of medical school. Two years of pounding through anatomy labs, sleepless nights with textbooks stacked taller than me, exams that left me broken.

I’d dissected cadavers, memorized drug classes, and forced every nerve pathway into my skull until it felt like my brain might combust.

Third year was next—the hospital floors, rotations, sixty-hour weeks where every mistake would carve itself into my record forever.

I should’ve been thinking about that. About future patients. About what sort of doctor I wanted to become.

Instead, I was here with my cock raging against a towel, undone by the thought of one woman upstairs.

All that discipline, all that training, and it wasn’t the boards or the rotations that had me trembling—it was her. Teyonah, with her soft curves and tired laugh. Teyonah, who handed me sweaters and straightened my tie like I mattered. Teyonah, who made me feel seen in a way no lecture hall or exam grade ever could.

Christ.

If I couldn’t keep myself steady now, how was I going to survive when the real battles started?

When life-and-death decisions pressed down instead of lust?

Every nerve pathway I memorized in the lab was wasted, because the only anatomy that mattered was hers. I wanted to chart her curves like a map, trace her veins with my tongue, study the tremor in her thighs until she screamed my name.

Okay. . .stop. . .

Time stuttered to my chest rising and falling. My cock twitching against muscle. Her laugh echoing through my skull. My soul suspended between restraint and collapse.

Sighing, I raked a hand through my wet hair and left the bathroom.

The basement apartment was cool and dim with the hum of the old air unit filling the silence.

It wasn’t much, just a narrow rectangle of a home carved under the world upstairs. A kitchen barely big enough for one man, a couch that doubled as a study surface when books spilled over, a bed shoved against the far wall.

I kept the space clean. The counters gleamed, the floors swept, the sheets pulled tight every morning.

The only chaos I ever allowed was my books—stacks of anatomy atlases, pharmacology guides, thick binders of notes that colonized every flat surface until the place looked more like a library annex than an apartment.