11. Lars
I don’t look back after I walk away.
If I see her one more time—pressed against that door, eyes wide, chest heaving—I’ll fuck her right here in this hallway, security cameras be damned.
The image clings to me as I move, my body still wired tight from her presence.
Every breath feels too shallow, every step pushed forward by force of will alone.
By the time I reach my car, I’m so hard that I’m lightheaded. The drive back to the condo blurs into red lights and restraint, my grip on the steering wheel tightens with every memory that surfaces. The phantom press of her thighs around my hips follows me all the way back to the condo.
I make my way upstairs by instinct. I slip the key into the lock, and when I step inside, I turn on the lights. I don’t bother with a sweep this time. I can’t focus long enough to care.
The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I’m already unbuckling my belt. There’s nothing gentle or patient in the desperate need crawling up my spine. I lean back against the door and free myself, my cock thick and painfully hard, leaking at the tip as my breath breaks on a curse.
“Fuck…”
I wrap my hand around my length, and the sound that tears out of me is almost violent. Because all I can see is her. Her mouth opening on a gasp when I sucked a retaliatory bruise on her neck, her knees buckling under my grip.
I stroke once, and my head thumps back against the door. My hips jerk forward. My jaw clamps so hard it sparks behind my eyes.
I swear I can smell her again, a phantom scent that’s enough to wreck me. Sweet and warm, sex and heat tangled with jasmine. The memory pushes me over the edge of control. I pump harder, faster, my thumb dragging over the head as my balls tighten.
I picture her dropping that card from her lips and her thighs pressing together, trying and failing to manage the ache I left behind. She was wet when I left her, I know it.
The thought of sliding into that wet heat detonates something deep in my spine. My hand moves in a brutal rhythm—up, down, twist, grip tightening—my breath breaking into moans I can’t swallow any longer. Her name rips from my mouth, ragged and unrestrained.
“Neomi…”
Images crash through me in quick succession. Her lipstick smeared from my kiss, her body curling into mine, her voice breaking when she moaned for me. I slam my free hand against the door and fuck my fist with punishing strokes, tension racing through my muscles, crawling through every nerve.
When it snaps, it rips through me in a vicious surge. I say her name as I come, thick pulses spilling over my hand, my hips jerking uncontrollably as I chase every tremor until I’m shaking.
My breath drags out of me in harsh pulls. My hand falls away, and I stay there—spent, head pressed back to the door—trying to remember how to breathe. It takes a long minute before my pulse slows enough to move.
My mind keeps replaying her voice. Her eyes. The way she looked up at me like she wanted to devour me.
It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. And it’s already too late.
This woman is going to ruin me.