At home

The walk home dragged on endlessly. With every step, the denim rubbed mercilessly against my already oversensitive skin, forcing me to bury my hands deep in my jacket pockets just to push the fabric away from me somehow. Emma’s perfume seemed clinging to my clothes—sweet, like roses and spring, a silent reproach against everything I had actually resolved to do.

When I got home, the apartment was dead silent. Dad was still at the office, his wife was probably out, and there was no trace of Loona. I breathed a sigh of relief, stripped off the tight jeans in the hallway, and slipped into the gray pajama pants. They fit too snugly, but they were soft, and for a moment, the relief felt almost good. Almost. Because the thin cotton did nothing to conceal what was underneath; the outline strained against the fabric, hard and unforgiving.

My gaze caught the note on the fridge, written in Loona’s neat, no-nonsense handwriting: Clean the bathroom. Thoroughly.

A sigh escaped me. It was ridiculous. I could have just gone to my room. Door closed, hand down my pants, two minutes, and all this damn pressure in my head would have been gone. But Loona’s voice was breathing down my neck—her look, the strict ban from three days ago. She would notice. Somehow, she always noticed, and the thought made my throat tighten—while at that very moment, my cock throbbed even harder against the fabric. I hated how easily my body responded to her commands, even when she wasn't in the room.

To drown out the noise in my head, I fished my in-ear headphones out of my pocket, pushed them into my ears, and hit play on the playlist. The new track by Fontaines D.C. blasted through—dry bass, driving drums that matched the exact beat of my already racing pulse.

Five minutes later, I was on my knees on the tile floor in front of the toilet. The pungent stench of bleach and synthetic lemon stung my nose as I mechanically worked the scouring sponge along the edges. It didn't help. The music was pounding, but the images remained: Emma sucking on that damn straw, letting her tongue trace circles; her knee casually resting against mine under the table; and right behind that, Loona, laying down the rules and shutting me down with a half-smile. The arousal was so thick that every breath felt heavy.

I gave up. I wiped my sweat-drenched forehead with the back of my hand, tossed the sponge into the bucket with a wet slap, and pulled myself up by the edge of the sink. The bulge under my pants throbbed with a dull ache, stretching the gray fabric to its breaking point. I didn't turn off the music—I needed the beat to keep from losing my mind entirely—and stepped absently out into the narrow hallway.

I didn't see her. I didn't hear her.

The impact came out of nowhere. I collided head-on with someone who had just stepped out of the back storage closet, heavily laden. There was an ugly, metallic clatter as the vacuum wand hit the parquet floor, a startled gasp—and Arisa lost her footing.

She tripped over the tangled cord, tumbled forward, and instinctively grabbed at the only thing within reach.

Me.

Her fingers dug into the elastic waistband of my pants with her full weight, yanking the fabric down quite a bit and nearly pulling me down with her. For two seconds, the world stood completely still. Arisa was half-kneeling on the floor in front of me, her head so close to my crotch that I could feel the heat. My hard-on was almost fully outlined through the shifted, thin fabric, visibly pulsing in time with the bass still blasting in my ears.

My heart skipped a beat. What little blood was left in my head rushed straight to my cheeks with full force, setting my ears ablaze.

"Shit—I'm so sorry!" I stammered, ripping the earphones out so fast the cord whistled, and hurriedly grabbed her shoulders to pull her up. "I had… I was listening to music, I didn't see you coming at all. Are you okay?"

Arisa recovered remarkably fast. She let me help her up, smoothed down her skirt with practiced composure, and looked me over. No anger. Not even real surprise. Instead, there was this amused, far-too-perceptive glint in her eyes. She took me in from top to bottom, lingered half a second too long on my pants, then took a step forward and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. A brief, motherly hug that threw me off balance even more.

"It's fine, John. Take a deep breath," she said softly, patting my back reassuringly while I desperately tried to angle my hips back to avoid any contact whatsoever. "No harm done."

The second she let go, I mumbled another half-baked apology, spun on my heels, and practically broke into a run toward my room. Just get away. Just get that door shut.

Smack.

The slap landed dry and dead-center on my ass.

I flinched as if I’d been hit with an electric shock and whipped my head around. Arisa was standing by the vacuum cleaner, the handle already resting loosely in her hand, watching me with a crooked, knowing smirk.

"Don't forget to empty your wastebasket later," she said casually, but the mocking undertone sliced razor-sharp through the air. "And in case you've run out of tissues: there's a fresh box right at the front of the closet, on the very top shelf."

She turned away, switched on the vacuum, and hummed off toward the living room as if nothing had happened at all.

It took me three seconds to catch my breath. The shame burned so hot in my throat that it nearly choked me. I stumbled into my room, slammed the door behind me, turned the key, and leaned my back against the wood, my heart hammering furiously against my ribs.