Chapter 7 Simon #2
I toe off my boots and move to the fridge. I haven’t eaten all day, and my stomach clenches in protest. I pull a ribeye from the fridge and slap it into the hot cast-iron pan.
Butter, garlic, thyme. The usual ritual. My hands go through the steps automatically, but my mind’s not here. Not really.
Because from where I stand, I can see the scarf.
It’s draped over the edge of the charcoal sofa. Careless. Mocking. Right where I set it earlier when I emptied my pockets.
Meant to toss it in the clinic’s lost and found. Meant to forget it.
But it’s there.
And it reeks of her.
I press down on the steak with a spatula, the hiss of sear and sizzling butter flooding the air—but even through all of it, her scent lingers. Amber. Clove. A smoky sweetness that curls under my ribs and won’t let go.
It’s useless to pretend I can focus now.
I kill the burner.
Peel off my scrub top, dragging the fabric over my head in one rough motion. Antiseptic soap and peppermint oil cling to my skin, but they’re fading and being replaced.
I run a hand through my hair, then pace once across the kitchen, twice. My jaw clenches. My cock’s already half-hard and aching behind my zipper.
I know I should shower. I know I should eat. I know this is wrong.
But I’m already moving.
I drop to my knees beside the sofa like something in me surrendered. My fingers find the scarf—soft, warm, stupidly innocent—and lift it to my face.
The smell hits me like a goddamn freight train.
I groan low in my throat. Harsh. Hungry.
I stand and pace, trying to calm the racing thoughts in my mind. There’s the faintest note of salt, the tang of sweat and heat buried beneath the surface.
It smells like her body. Like skin still flushed from heat, mouth still swollen from kissing. Feminine and dangerous and fucking intoxicating.
My eyes fall shut as it hits me full-force, and my jaw locks tight. My throat works around a dry swallow.
I’m hard in seconds.
My cock throbs behind my zipper, thick and aching, the head already damp with pre-come. I haven’t even touched myself yet, but my body’s already ahead of me—drunk on her scent, chasing something I shouldn’t want.
I move without thinking, like I’m not even in control of my own limbs.
My belt comes undone with a sharp metallic clink. My fingers are clumsy on the zipper, too fast, too eager.
I shove my pants down past my hips along with my boxers, just far enough to let my cock spring free, flushed and heavy against my stomach.
The cold air bites at my skin, but it’s no match for the heat pulsing through me.
I lean back against the edge of the kitchen island, the steel cold against my spine. I spread my legs wide for balance and plant my feet flat on the concrete.
Then I wrap one hand around my cock—firm, desperate—and hold the scarf in the other like it’s sacred.
A guttural groan tears out of me as I stroke once, slow and tight, my fist gliding down the thick length and my thumb pressing into the slick ridge under the head. I’m already so hard it hurts.
I drag the scarf to my nose again, inhale deep enough that it stings the back of my throat. The burn doesn’t stop me. I want it to burn.
I want her everywhere.
In my lungs. On my skin. Under my fucking tongue.
I imagine her mouth first. The shape of her lips parted around a gasp, her tongue wetting her bottom lip, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused as she leaned in close.
I can almost feel the weight of her straddling my lap, her thighs tightening around me as she settles.
She wouldn’t be shy. She’s not that kind of woman.
Wren would be curious. Bold. Starving.
She’d take me in her hand, grip firm and sure, guiding me into her like she’s done it a hundred times in her mind.
Her breath would catch—just for a second—when I stretch her, when she feels how thick I am. But she wouldn’t stop. She’d ride it out. Clench around me like a vise.
She’d grind down slowly, making us both suffer.
I see her so clearly—back arched, hair falling across her eyes, hands planted on my chest as she starts to move. That mouth of hers pulled tight, trying not to make a sound, trying not to beg.
But I’d make her beg.
I’d fuck it out of her—every shaky breath, every whispered curse, every whimper she doesn’t want me to hear.
She doesn’t even know. Doesn’t realize what she’s doing to me.
But I do.
I see every goddamn inch of her. The twitch in her lashes when I pressed the stethoscope to her bare skin. That wild, aching defiance that clings to her like sweat.
She’s not delicate. She’s dangerous.
And I want her anyway.
My hand pumps faster, tighter, slick with need. The scarf is wrapped around my knuckles now, fisted like a leash, and I hold it close to my face as I fuck into my grip. Each stroke sends a jolt through my spine.
I’m panting. Cursing under my breath. My hips jerk up in time with each pull of my fist.
The air is filled with the wet sound of skin on skin, the scrape of my breathing, the low groan that rips from my chest when I imagine her clenching around me.
Hot. Wet. So, fucking tight I’d lose every ounce of control I have.
Her thighs would tremble. Her body would shake. She’d dig her nails into my back, anchoring herself while I thrust up into her, deep and rough, giving her everything.
She’d moan my name like she’s not afraid of what it means. Like it belongs to her.
“Simon… don’t stop.”
Fuck.
That does it.
My whole body locks up, muscles drawn tight like wire. My hips snap forward, and I come with a raw, helpless gasp. Thick pulses spill over my hand, my wrist, across the fabric of her scarf. My vision whites out at the edges.
My head drops back as I ride the wave, thighs shaking, cock jerking with each release until there’s nothing left but the heavy thud of my heartbeat and the ache in my spine.
The scarf slips from my fingers, drifting to the floor in a soft, humiliating flutter.
I stare down at the mess—at my slick-covered hand, my softening cock, the ruined scarf. My shame hits cold and fast.
This isn’t who I am. I’m not this man. I’ve built my entire fucking life on precision. On discipline. On restraint.
And now here I am—panting in my kitchen, pants around my thighs, broken open by the ghost of a woman’s scent.
And the worst part?
I already know I’ll do it again because her name keeps ricocheting through my head.
Marissa said I didn’t know how to want. But if she saw me now, would she call this want or just weakness?