8. Finn
Finn
I swear I wasn’t trying to listen. Really, I wasn’t—swear on my life. I was just laying on my bed, reading a book.
But the walls in this place weren’t built for privacy, and the guest room shares a wall with mine.
At first, I thought maybe the heater had kicked on, but the pitch wasn’t right. The sound kept going—a low humming vibration—and then I heard her.
There was a gasp and a broken breath, and all of a sudden, I knew exactly what I was hearing.
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 what I gave 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. I told her 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, much younger 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.
I start the coffee. Open the windows. Give myself something to do with my hands. Which is maybe not the best thing, because last time I did something with my hands it was to jerk off to the sound of the girl in the next room pleasuring herself.
The mug’s halfway to my lips when I hear her behind me. Her footsteps are quiet, but I’ve been listening for them.
“Morning.”
I turn and nearly burn my tongue on the coffee. She’s in one of Jonah’s shirts, big enough to hang past mid-thigh, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair’s still sleep-mussed, and her eyes look tired.
God, she is so fucking beautiful.
“Morning,” I manage.
She nods, barely making eye contact, and pours herself a cup. She doesn’t add anything, just holds the mug with both hands and keeps her eyes on the counter.
Well, this isn’t awkward at all.
My brain kicks into overdrive. Does she know? Does she know that I know what she did? Oh, God.
Maybe she heard me. I was quiet, though, right? I mean, I heard her, so it’s not unbelievable that she heard me right back. Shit. Is this the part where she tells me I’m disgusting and she never wants to speak to me again?
I shift my weight and force a swallow past the dry lump in my throat.
Say something. Anything. Offer her eggs. Comment on the weather. Ask her how she slept.
Before I can say anything, she glances up and says, “Thank you.”
“For the coffee?” I ask, though I already know what she’s talking about.
She shakes her head and offers a shy smile. “For...everything yesterday.”
I nod. I don’t know the right thing to say, so I just stay quiet.
She leans against the far side of the counter. The fabric of the shirt pulls at her shoulder when she shifts, exposing a sliver of skin. Her blush is already rising, blooming across her cheeks, the longer we stand here. I try not to notice. Try not to let it get to me.
But I fail miserably.
Don’t think about last night. Don’t you dare.
I clear my throat. “Did you...find something you liked?”
She freezes.
Her eyes snap to mine. The pink on her cheeks deepens into something darker, spreading toward her neck. She swallows, then nods once, the movement jerky.
“One of them…” she starts. “But some of them were…intimidating. I don’t...” She trails off, the rest of the sentence lost in the steam from her mug.
I chuckle, trying to ease the tension. “Yeah, I might have gone overboard.”
She laughs softly, the sound helping me to relax.
That should be the end of it. Pat yourself on the back because clearly you did a good thing, and move on.
But I’m not that noble. Clearly.
The words come to my mind, but I don’t say them. I grip my mug tighter, like maybe that’ll keep them in. I tell myself to shut up. Let it go. I will bite my tongue off before I say these words.
Walk away. Make a joke. I should do anything but what I’m about to do.
But by the time I realize I’ve lost the battle, the words are already falling out of my mouth.
“I could show you how to use them,” I hear myself say.
Her forehead wrinkles as if she’s trying to figure out if I actually just said that.
“If you want,” I add, like that soft little clause is going to make any of this better.
I resist the urge to laugh like a crazed maniac. What the fuck am I doing?
She stares at me for a beat longer. Then she whispers, “Yes.”
Her answer short-circuits something in my brain.
I set my mug down and cross the space between us. I reach for her wrist, and the second my fingers wrap around it, I know I’m gone.
I’m running on heat and instinct and the kind of bone-deep pull I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.
I lead her back down the hall like a man possessed, and I know I should be worried about what happens next.
But I’m not.
Whatever it is I’m getting myself into…I don’t think I’ll be able to get myself back out.