Every day is a struggle. Noah always finds a reason to chat with me, tiny ways to touch. A lingering handshake when we say good morning. Brushing against me at the coffee cart. Looks of longing from across the room. It’s the looks that kill me the most. His eyes lay heavier on me than his hands ever have.
I know what I want is wrong, but desire is amoral. I ricochet between arousal with no break pedal and startling guilt with inaction. My mind wants peace and proper things, but my body wants the naughty chaos.
This all encompassing hunger moves me like nothing’s ever moved me before. Thoughts of him tease me — I close my eyes and feel his lips moving up my spine. I touch myself like he would. I spread my lips like he would. I spank my clit like he would, like he could… if I forget about his wife.