--
"You think you're so tough hm?" He says, getting closer to me. Both of our eyes lustful, deep and glued to each other's.
"I am" I certify the one standing in front of me, our proximity making me nervous, but I'm refusing to show any signs of it...
"I might change your contact to don't leave me alone. You said you liked my eyes and you like to make them roll, treat me like a queen, yeah you got me feeling thrown."
Nonsense by Sabrina Carpenter, pt 2.
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Biting my nails, I'm pulled from my thoughts by a hand placed gently on my shoulder.
"Are you okay? You've been off the whole day," Anthony asks, his eyebrows furrowing deeply as we sit in the back seats of the car. His voice carries concern, as though he's been watching me for a while.
In the front, Eduardo and Daphne are absorbed in their own world, while Mike sits on Anthony's other side, oblivious to our conversation.
I glance up at Anthony and subtly roll my fingers forward—a gesture we've long used that means, I'll explain later.
His frown deepens, but he respects my signal and nods, leaving me to my thoughts once again.
His lips had claimed mine without warning— the taste of him still vivid on my memory. There was no polite ask, no hesitation—just the feel of our tongues meeting in a rush. I had never felt this undone by a single touch, by anyone. His hand gripped tighter at my waist, and my fingers, almost instinctively, tangled deeper into his hair, pulling him closer.
I shake my head. No, no, no. What have I done? I have a team trip tomorrow—what on earth was I thinking? What had possessed me?
Oh, I know exactly what.
I wasn't thinking at all.
Or rather, I was thinking way too much. And with my fucking ovaries.
——————
Getting into the apartment, I throw myself onto the bed, hoping it'll swallow me up and make me forget. My fingers graze my lips, and I hate how much I miss the feeling of his on mine, how much I crave him. Fully, completely.
Sitting up, I grab my phone and unlock it, staring at the screen for a long moment. The impulse to message him surges, but I snap the phone shut and toss it onto the bed, away from me and my bad decision making skills.
This is wrong. This is a disaster.
But if it's so wrong, why did it feel so right?
Nothing this bad should feel that good.
I flop face down onto the bed, my phone beckoning me from where it landed. I give in, unlocking it once more. Without hesitation, I navigate to my messages, straight to his contact.
"Leave me alone," his name reads.
It seems ironic now.
My fingers hover, itching to send something—anything. How am I supposed to face him again after what happened?
