Two A.M. Confession

When the City Finally Sleeps

It was past two and the rain had turned the windows into smears of gold from the streetlights. We were on my couch, too close, the kind of close that makes your skin hum. I’d kicked off my heels hours ago. He’d lost the tie. Neither of us had gone home.

I could smell him — warm skin, that cologne I pretended not to notice. Every time he laughed at something I said, I felt it low in my stomach.

The Lie We Kept Telling

We’d been calling it friendship. Late-night talks. Harmless. But my eyes kept dropping to his mouth and his kept finding the open collar of my blouse. I wanted him so badly it made my voice come out softer than I meant it to.

I shifted and my thigh pressed against his. He didn’t pull away. Heat. Instant. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound just from that.

🔒

It gets a lot less tame from here.

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Finally

I looked him in the eye and stopped pretending. "I’ve been wanting you. Not in some cute, slow-burn way. I want your hands on me. I want to know what you sound like when you stop holding back."

His breath caught. Then he said, quiet and rough, "I’ve wanted you since the night we met. I’ve been going to bed thinking about the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching."

The Inch Between Us

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering against my neck. I leaned into the touch like I’d been starving for it. Our faces were so close I could feel his breath on my lips.

I didn’t kiss him. Not yet. I let the want sit there, thick and shaking, and whispered, "Then what are you waiting for?"

His eyes went dark. His hand slid to my waist. And the night held its breath with us.