Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Matty opened the door and bounded up the stairs towards her room. Brandon’s music was on, but not as loud as the last time she’d been home.
“Where you been, dirty stop-out?” Sarah called out to her.
She stopped outside the kitchen and looked in to find both of her flatmates drinking tea. Brandon had a spliff on the go, burnt halfway down and in need of relighting, but the smell still hung in the air. He jerked his chin at her. “Alright?”
Sarah’s half-eaten tuna sandwich sat wilting on a plate.
“Yeah, it was a long night. Gloria fell and we had to take her to the hospital. Didn’t get back till three, so I stayed over.”
“She alright?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah—more injured pride than pain, I think. They just dropped me off, though. I need to get showered and changed and then we’re buying Gloria a mobility scooter.”
“A lot of we in these statements.” Sarah smiled, and Matty felt herself blush. “What’s her name again?”
“Sloan,” Matty said, trying not to grin like an idiot. “And yes, she’s...attractive, and I might have kissed her.”
“Oh, heck, here we go,” Brandon said, picking up the spliff and lighting it again. A big cloud of pungent smoke filled the kitchen.
“Now we need all the details,” Sarah said, laughing.
Matty stared at the clock on the oven. “Let me get changed and then I’ll fill you in. Make us a cuppa, will you?” she said, darting away before anyone could get her talking again.
Matty stripped off, turned on the shower, and waited for it to heat. Her body felt oversensitive, as though any touch might set her off. She looked at herself in the mirror—flushed, wide-eyed, lips bruised from last night’s kissing.
When steam fogged the glass, she stepped into the cubicle and under the water. The warm spray only made the sensation worse. She braced her hands on the tiles and stood there breathing through it, trying not to feel every drop as it slid over her skin.
“Christ,” she muttered, breathing harder. Would Sloan know?
She could do it quickly. Take the edge off and say nothing. Sloan hadn’t specifically said she couldn’t, and yet, she felt that was an unspoken part of Sloan’s instructions.
“Fuck,” she murmured.
She squeezed her thighs together and that only made it worse.
Tipping her head back, she let the water hammer her face and chest and tried to think of anything else—Sarah’s tuna sandwich, Brandon’s stupid music, the price of milk—anything that was not Sloan’s mouth on hers, Sloan’s hand in her hair, Sloan’s voice telling her to sleep.
It didn’t work.
She slid her hand down her stomach and stopped just short, her breath catching at the realisation of how close she was to giving in. She swore again, quieter this time, and pressed her forehead to the tile.
Sloan would know. Sloan would look at her and see it.
The thought should have embarrassed her. Instead, it only made her throb harder. It wasn’t just need. It was wanting Sloan to look at her and know she’d waited, wanting to hold on to whatever this was for a little longer.
Matty dragged in a breath, forced her hand away, and turned the tap colder, the shock of it making her hiss. “Get a grip,” she muttered.
She washed quickly, the boring motions of keeping her hands busy, keeping them high and away, refusing to let them drift.
By the time she shut the water off, she was still aching, still needy, but she had managed not to give in.
Only just.
Someone banging on the door downstairs jolted her thoughts to the fact Brandon’s mates would be traipsing through the flat at any moment.
She stepped out, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around herself with shaking hands. In the mirror, her eyes were too bright, too energised, and her cheeks still pink.
“Fine,” she told her reflection. “I can do this.”