3
Maya.
I should have been working. Or cleaning. Or doing something to distract myself from the growing ache between my legs and the memory of Caleb’s hands, his mouth, his voice. But all I could do was sit by the window, knees pulled to my chest, peeking through the thin curtain at the apartment across from mine.
Caleb’s blinds were open—on purpose, I liked to think. I could see his shadow moving around his living room, tall and confident and unhurried. I caught myself holding my breath every time he paused, every time he turned and the light hit his bare chest or the curve of his hips.
I wanted him to see me watching. God, I wanted him to look up and catch me, to know how badly I ached for him even when he wasn’t touching me. I wanted to know if he ever thought of me when I wasn’t th
