Deeper Than Desire

Finn

As much as I love satisfying Libby, my hard-on is damn near bad enough to cripple me. She slides off the bed, treating me to a mind-scrambling view of her bare ass, before slipping into the bathroom. Seconds later, I hear the shower cut on.

I flop back against her pillows and take a deep breath. It doesn't slow my heart—or help my hard-on—so I do another.

And another.

I don't remember the last time I was ever this ramped up for a girl. I damn near came on her sheets. Would've been embarrassing as hell. I don't lose control like that.

Except with her you nearly did, I think—and there it is. That was definitely enough for me to lose my hard-on. Libby...undoes me.

When I said I wasn't a man-whore, it was the truth. I don't fuck around, but I have fucked. Plenty. It's just never been that hot with anyone else and I don't know what that means. Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Maybe it means I've been single for too long. Or maybe it means I've wanted Libby for too long. It nearly got the better of me.

Soft humming joins the sound of rushing water and I study the bathroom door. I'm not hearing what I'm hearing, am I? Is that a radio or is Libs singing to herself?

The soft humming climbs, twisting into words, and I grin. I can't help it. Libby sings to herself in the shower. Or hums and sings. Or whatever you want to call it. That's so...cute.

And it's something I didn't know about her.

How...odd. It didn't feel like we had anything left between us. I sit up and start looking around for my boxers. I'd dropped them somewhere on Libby's floor and it takes me a second to locate them. Somehow, they're tangled up next to my jeans and Libby's red thong. I didn't realize I'd thrown it so far.

Then again, a herd of elephants could've paraded through her bedroom and I wouldn't have noticed but now that I'm here...

I take my time getting dressed and scope out her bedroom. I've been living with Libby for almost four months now, but I've never been inside her bedroom. It's a lot like the rest of the apartment—huge windows, delicate colors on the walls, loads of pictures of her friends and horses and dogs. The bed's bigger than I expected, which gives me unexpected flashbacks to the time we shared a bed when we were seven and Libby had slept like a starfish—all her legs and arms splayed out—and I'd gotten maybe six inches of the mattress's edge.

I grin. Wonder if she still sleeps like that?

Interesting. I thought I knew everything there was to know about Libs. How can we have been friends for so long and still have new things between us? Honestly, it should kind of irritate me. I don't like surprises or the unexpected. Being prepared is highly underrated.

But this is exciting.

She's exciting. This is exciting.

"I've wanted you for...forever," I mutter, studying the closed bathroom door. The shower's still going and her humming has gotten louder. Maybe if I get comfortable saying that alone, I'll finally be comfortable enough I can say it out loud.

I tug my T-shirt over my head and pad into the kitchen. Tripp is lying under the table, glaring at me, and I give him the finger, going to the fridge for some iced coffee. Going to need some caffeine for the afternoon, for sure. My brain immediately wants to follow that train of thought straight into picturing Libby on top of me, but I push the idea away. Last thing I need is a hard-on while I try to walk through Walgreens.

I take a sip of coffee, enjoying the moment the caffeine hits my veins, and hear my cell go off. I'd left it on the counter, facedown. I pick it up and check the screen. My dad.