Page 26 of Sour Notes

It’s time I face facts and accept it’s me she doesn’t want. I need to find a way to lock up these feelings like I did before, even if it feels like trying to cage a feral lion.

I glance down at the DoorDash app again, but fuck it. I’ve lost my appetite.

I walk to the kitchen drawer, and grab a Post-it, scrawling today's date and a quick note I shove into my pocket to deal with later.

She’s left the door open, and as I walk past her room I pause in the doorway and let her floral scent surround me like the sad sack I am.

Clothes lay strewn everywhere, across the floor, all over the bed. A fucking thong even hangs off the window.

What the hell?

No. I don’t want strangers seeing her underwear.

The house backs onto the ocean, my guy.

But. There’s. Boats.

Fuck it.

Striding into her chaos, I tug the offending thong off the window handle, stroking my thumb across the lace. It’s so soft. Scrunching it up in my fist, I draw it slowly up to my nose and suck in a deep breath, my heart sinking to find it’s clean.

You dirty fucker, drop her panties and get the hell out of there.

Jesus, what am I doing?

I shake myself out of my newfound pervy panty haze and yank my hand back, dropping her thong to the floor. Running to the hallway, I slam the door shut behind me.

Living with her is psychological warfare.

I’m gonna drive myself crazy imagining the panties she’s wearing for him if she left those behind. What if the date goes well and she goes back to his?

There's no way I can keep doing this. She has me acting like a damn simp for her. That ain’t me. I don’t even like myself right now, so no wonder she doesn’t.

Tomorrow shit changes. It’s time I get over her and work on rebuilding our friendship.

That decision doesn’t stop my dick throbbing at the memory of her thong though. From imagining that lacy string disappearing into the curves of her biteable ass.

I sink my teeth into my lip and bite back a groan.

Last time.

It’s the last time I let myself do this.

I stride into our bathroom, locking the door, and squeeze my aching dick. Her scent is stronger here and my cock surges, throbbing painfully, assaulted by her proximity.

Is she just going to linger everywhere?

I’m gonna need to get hold of her perfume and throw it in the trash at this rate. Every time I smell it, I’m transported straight back to the moment my head was buried in her neck, and she broke apart in my arms with a scream.

“Fuuuuuckk,” I growl, palming myself through my boxers.

Turning the shower on, I step under the hot spray, immediately gripping my length as I remember how good her pussy felt squeezing me last night.

I fist my cock tighter, remembering her low moan when I toyed with her nipples. The way her—suddenly the water coursing over me turns cold, hitting my skin like icy shards, and my boner shrinks faster than an ice cube on a hot day.

What the fuck, did she use all the hot water?

How long was she in the damn shower?