nods in understanding. “Fix things with Addison, make her see that sometimes two wrongs make a right.”
I should call in sick today. I’m still not feeling great, but my boss would not be happy. We’ve had a ton of cases lately. I have to go in.
I think about heading in early, avoiding the coffee morning routine that has become our neighborly thing. But, if I do that, the tension that’s already building will become tighter, and it will make it harder to move forward with whatever relationship we can salvage.
I slept for twelve straight hours last night. Falling into bed the minute I knew he was home from the track. I’d heard his shower turn on and finally relaxed under my comforter, content that he was home.
The evidence of our night still marks my skin and I’d be lying to myself if my heart hadn’t been slightly marked as well. It feels as though I left a piece of it behind when I snuck out, and I need to figure out how to get it back. I’m not ready to hand it out just yet.
Opening my cupboard, I carefully look over all the mugs. I pick a plain white ceramic one that says, “I’m a douche” on the bottom. It’s a way of apologizing without having to admit that I was wrong, because at this point, drunk sex with my neighbor wasn’t a good idea, even if it was the best sex I’ve ever experienced.
I’m stirring my milk into my coffee when I hear his front door slam closed. He’s either coming or going and I’m not sure which scenario I’d rather have.
Only one way to find out. Taking a deep slow breath, I calm my racing heart and head out to the balcony, sliding the door to the side and carefully stepping outside. Sitting down in one of my white chairs, I slowly sip my coffee. It’s eerily quiet, and I’m sure he’s ditched me, when his door slides open. I close my eyes and tell my heart to chill; it’s going to be fine.
Opening one eye at a time I find is a big mistake. His hair seems extra messy, his shirt is off and the track shorts he’s wearing are pulled down low on his hips, causing my breath to hitch and my fingers and toes to curl. I know what that skin feels like, I can practically still taste him on my tongue and the desire that’s been here for weeks hasn’t vanished, if anything, it’s stronger.
He’s playing with something in his hand—his coffee cup, that plain black boring one he sometimes uses is abandoned on the table. I can’t see what he’s holding, but suddenly he straightens and turns, his dark eyes intense as they take me in.
“Addison.” It’s an acknowledgement that I’m here. There’s no emotion in his voice, no kind eyes to wish me good morning, no teasing joke about my white mug.
He advances towards me, his hands still busy with whatever he’s holding. I’m cemented in place, slightly afraid, slightly curious but mostly mesmerized by a man who looks the same as Damian, but strangely, seems to be someone else.
Reaching his hand in my direction, I break my eyes away to see what he’s holding. “Can you please put this on my back.”
A deep burning blush crawls over my cheeks as I take the Neosporin from his fingers. “Sure.”
He turns and the angry welts from my nails are healing but look red and painful. A stark reminder that I can call it a mistake all I want, but the cold facts say something different.
The tip of my index finger touches the top of the largest and deepest cut and he stiffens.
“Sorry.”
His back is expanding with each breath he takes, his muscles flexing and relaxing under his smooth olive skin. Gently I slide a lubricated finger down the first mark, the tip of my finger the only part of me touching his skin. He shivers slightly on a large exhale, and I leave my finger at the bottom of that scratch, my hand beginning to shake with the urge to touch him more. To rub my hands over his shoulders and down to his fingers that only days ago made my body tremble and my insides shake.
Standing perfectly erect, he’s barely breathing, as my finger stays put, not in control enough to move on to the other marks.
Inhaling sharply, I remove my finger. The slightest release of his shoulders tells me this is