Simon’s hand lingered just a hair too long along your side, the warmth of your body a delicious distraction he couldn’t resist. Every brush of skin against skin made him sharper, a quiet hum of tension threading through him. His lips trailed along your neck, teasing, grazing, barely touching, and he felt your shiver in response.

You pressed into him instinctively, and the rhythm of your bodies meshed in a slow, intimate sway—no words needed. The hush of the room amplified every sound: a sigh, the scrape of sheets, the subtle catch of breath. Each movement, each shift, was electric, making the air between you crackle.

His fingers traced along your arm, inching dangerously close but never over the line, teasing the edges of what could be. He nuzzled closer, lips brushing your ear as he murmured something so soft you almost couldn’t hear it, a low, almost teasing sound that made your pulse jump.

Then—the harsh glow of the phone.

Simon froze. The caller ID stabbed the dim room with reality. His jaw tightened, lips pressing against your shoulder as he cursed softly under his breath, wishing the world outside these sheets would vanish. But even as he reached for the phone, his body didn’t move away. The closeness remained. The tension hung in the air, thick and unbroken, like static waiting for the storm.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed for a moment, taking in your warmth, your presence. The teasing had to stop for now, but neither of you moved apart. Your bodies still fit together, a quiet promise that the spark wasn’t gone—it was just waiting, simmering under the surface, making every breath shared feel electric.

Even interrupted, even tethered to reality, desire lingered. Every whispered shiver, every subtle brush of a hand, every stolen glance over a shoulder told a story louder than any words could.