I stop dead in the hallway outside the bathroom.

Sunday afternoon, golden sunlight streams in every available window of the apartment, illuminating a scene I never once thought I’d see. It’s like something out of the world’s tamest porno, if your porn of choice was a lingerie magazine.

I’ve been out all day. I went for a run in Central Park. I ate lunch in a diner. I generally avoided Whitney, because holy shit was last night awkward. Her wine date must’ve put her up to something, because she came in with her verbal fists swinging, putting a name to the tension that’s been thick in our apartment since she told me to my face that she doesn’t have the hots for me.

Fat fucking chance.

I was honest with her last night when I shouldn’t have been. I’ve been giving her space.

She’s been doing laundry.

I must’ve known deep down that this would happen eventually. We’re living with each other for the convenience of it, and since I’ve moved in, we’ve always done laundry on different days. Usually, she’s folding it in a basket when I get back from my weekly appointments at the VA. Half the time, I actually go. Half the time, I go to the park and walk around the big loop.

None of that matters.

Whitney isn’t here, but the bathroom is full of her bras.

The girl has a magnificent fucking collection.

It’s an expensive rainbow of lingerie, ranging from black to aqua to red, and they’re all hanging up around the bathroom, taunting me.

I’m rooted to the spot, pinned in place by thoughts I can’t stop.

Was she wearing one of these at the wedding? Was the lacy fabric grazing her nipples, making them hard, when she leapt at me, pressing her mouth against mine? Are these what Whitney wears under her shirt every day, while she’s wearing her demure dresses that flare at the hips, or the button-downs and dress slacks that make her ass look so grabbable I have to keep my hands in my pockets?

I’m harder than iron at the thought, my cock pressing painfully against the zipper of my work pants. This is some fucking fantasy, and for once, I don’t mind letting my imagination run away with me. For once, it’s running toward something soft and sexy, not toward the killing fields of Afghanistan. For once.

My eyes settle on a deep purple bra, a jewel hanging over the curtain rod. I’ve never been much for purple, but I can practically see it against her creamy skin. The only thing sexier than seeing her delectably round, full breasts rising above the line of this bra would be taking it off. Undoing the hooks, one by one. Slipping my fingers underneath the straps, drawing them over her shoulders one after the other, until this purple thing made of lace and lust falls to the floor and those fucking gorgeous breasts spill out into my hands.

She’d gasp at my touch, the pads of my thumbs against her nipples, and that’s all it would take. One arch of her back and all the sunshine and sarcasm would fall away. She’d be the woman who kissed me in my hotel room. She’d be dark and hot and mine.

I take in a ragged breath.

“What are you doing?”

Oh, fuck.

Whitney stands in the hallway in a t-shirt and yoga pants, laundry basket balanced against her hip, a little smile on her face that looks so smug I want to kiss it off. “You know, they’re a lot sexier when they’re on.”

“I’m on my way to my room.” My voice is gruff. I’m fucking caught with a tent in my pants I have zero hope of hiding.

She nods sagely. “Yes. Better take care of yourself.” I watch her gaze flick down to the front of my pants.

This should be one-hundred percent humiliating, but even in this moment, even in this embarrassing fucking moment, I want more than her eyes on the outline of my cock pushing against my pants. I want her on her knees, that hopeful smile playing on her lips. That’s what I want. This is as close as it’s going to get. So it’s only ninety percent humiliating.

Fuck.

Whitney turns her head, averting her eyes, and I take the moment to escape down the hallway and into my bedroom. I shut the door as quietly as I can. She doesn’t need to know the animalistic need raging through my veins.

She caught me.

She fucking caught me, and there was no way to avoid it. I might as well have been standing there with my pants down. I wish it had ended in both of us on the floor, her basket spilled onto the carpet.

But I’m in here, wanting to fuck her so badly I can taste it, and she’s probably in the bathroom, putting up more bras to taunt me when I walk back out.

If I walk back out.

I run both hands over my face, willing this to go away.

It doesn’t.

I can’t get any of it out of my head. The lingerie. The curve of her hip jutting against that laundry basket. The red lips in a little smile, dark eyes locked on me.

I grip the edge of the dresser with one hand and unzip with the other. There’s no way I can live with this. My fucking head’s going to explode. I’m so on edge that it can’t take more than a minute of hard strokes before I’m grabbing for a tissue like a teenager. Part of me cares. The rest of me shudders with the release.

My heart slows, and I sit down heavily on my bed. I can still taste how much I want her, but at least the pressure in my head—and everywhere else—has loosened its grip.

There’s a casual knock on my bedroom door. “Wes?”

“I’m good.” Jesus Christ.

“Did you want any Chinese? I’m going to order from the place down the street.”

“I’m good.” I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

The last of my resolve snaps like an old rubber band. “Go away, Whitney.”

She does.