Chapter 2: The First Touch

Three days had crawled by in a haze of stolen glances at my phone and restless nights where sleep refused to come. Every time I closed my eyes, the memory slammed back—David’s dark stare burning into me from the doorway, the way his boxers had strained, the low gravel of his voice saying he couldn’t look away. My body betrayed me constantly. A low, insistent throb would bloom between my legs at the most random moments: in the middle of a lecture, while folding laundry, even now, gripping the steering wheel as I drove back to Katie’s house for another movie night.

I should stay away, I told myself, the suburban streets blurring past my windshield. It was a one-time accident. Act normal. Laugh at his dad jokes like always. Do not think about how his eyes made you come harder than you ever have alone. But my thighs pressed together anyway, the seam of my jeans rubbing just enough to tease. The pull was magnetic, impossible to fight. When Katie texted asking if I was free, my fingers typed yes before my brain could argue.

The house smelled like melted cheese and warm tomato sauce when I stepped inside. Katie had ordered pizza, the boxes open on the coffee table beside two glasses of cheap red wine. She was already curled into the corner of the couch in her oversized hoodie, remote in hand, scrolling through our usual lineup of mindless comedies. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” she teased, kicking a slice my way. “Date hangover still?”

I forced a laugh and dropped beside her, the fleece blanket from last time draped over our laps like nothing had changed. We bantered through the first half of the movie—inside jokes about her terrible coworkers, my disastrous dating history—her shoulder bumping mine the way it always did. Easy. Familiar. Safe. But every creak of the floorboards upstairs made my pulse skip. David was home. I could feel it in the air, that faint trace of cedar and clean laundry drifting from the hallway.

Katie yawned around nine, earlier than usual, rubbing her eyes. “Work’s kicking my ass this week. Crashing hard. Guest room’s yours again—don’t let Dad keep you up with his midnight water runs.” She hugged me quick, her bedroom door clicking shut upstairs with that final, decisive sound. My stomach flipped. Nervous excitement coiled low and tight.

I waited five long minutes in the living room, heart drumming, then slipped downstairs to the guest room. This time I left the door cracked a few inches on purpose. The blue walls felt dimmer tonight, the cool cotton sheets already turned back like an invitation. I changed slowly, peeling off my jeans and top, letting the thin camisole slide over bare breasts—no bra, nipples already tight against the soft fabric. Sleep shorts next, loose and short enough that the hem brushed the tops of my thighs. I knew he might come down. God, I wanted him to.