Chapter 6 #2
Upstairs. . .she had to be asleep by now.
Teyonah always looked bone tired by ten, dragging herself through bedtime routines with the kids.
The thought slashed through me: her in bed, hair spread across the pillow, breasts rising slow and heavy under her tank top.
Her lips parted, soft breaths spilling into the dark.
I could sneak up there.
Quiet.
Careful.
Stand at the edge of her bed like some hungry shadow. Just watch her chest rise and fall, just breathe in her scent—the lavender, the honey, the heat of her body sunk into those sheets.
My cock would be in my fist before I could stop myself, stroking slow, leaking over her floor.
She would never know.
I would come to the sight of her sleeping. The thought of spilling all over her hardwood just to keep from painting her skin made my teeth clench.
Fuck.
I turned around and pressed my forehead to the tile.
Water streamed over me, but it only fueled the fever.
Because the truth was this: I didn’t want to sneak. I didn’t want to hide. I wanted her to wake, to open those eyes and see me standing there—cock in hand, veins bulging, dripping for her—and whisper my name like it hurt.
I wanted her shock, her gasp, her voice breaking as I told her she belonged to me, and then to begin fucking her raw.
Every scenario was worse than the last.
Every picture in my head pulled the leash tighter.
And still… I couldn’t stop imagining.
No. No. Let’s end this.
I let go of my cock and placed both hands against the tile. “Fuck this.”
I wasn’t winning this battle.
Not tonight.
“I’ll get some sleep.” I twisted the faucet off.
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.
And then there was the huge skeleton.
A plastic one I’d bought online, standing in the corner like a silent roommate, draped in a faded med school hoodie. Its hollow sockets stared out over the room. It was a grim reminder of everything I was studying for and, if I was being honest, the closest thing I had to company on many nights.
Not too much personality showed in my place. . .until one looked at the walls.
My nerd shrine.
A vintage Doogie Howser, M.D. poster my dad had bought for me when I was eight, back when he used to play the show’s reruns to keep me dreaming big.
Next to it, a shadow box with my first stethoscope my mother got me for my 9th birthday. It was the cheap plastic kind that came with a toy doctor’s kit, still scuffed from when I wore it nonstop around the house.
There was also a framed print of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man hung crooked above my desk lamp, and on the bookshelf leaned a bobblehead of Dr. House, his cane tucked under one arm, scowling like he approved of nothing and no one.
I padded barefoot across the floor to the fridge.
My wet soles squeaked against the linoleum.
The fridge was a rusty thing, that hummed like a rickety engine and wheezed out cool drafts every time I cracked it open. But it held my food, my meal prep containers, my protein shakes.
And tonight, it held my salvation.
I opened it and pulled out a beer.
The coldness bit into my hand as I lifted it. I twisted off the cap, tossed it in the trash, and took a long, slow swig, wincing as the sharp taste washed over my tongue and down my throat.
It was a poor substitute for Teyonah’s sweetness, but at least it numbed the ache. At least it dulled the image of her smiling at me, her laugh bouncing around in my head.
A knock sounded.
I stopped drinking and checked my watch.
10:00pm. Who is that?
No one ever knocked this late. Teyonah and the kids should have been upstairs, teeth brushed, stories read, lights dimmed.
What’s going on?
I crossed the room and opened the door.
Oh fuck.
Teyonah stood on the other side.
Mmmm. She’s come to me. Big mistake. She should’ve stayed upstairs. Because now that she’s at my door, I don’t know if I’ll ever let her leave.