I locked the bathroom stall door and hiked up my skirt with shaking hands.
This was the third time today. Third time I'd abandoned my study materials, walked down two flights of stairs to the third-floor bathrooms, and locked myself in here to touch my aching p***y because I couldn't f*****g concentrate.
And it was all Ethan Cross's fault.
I could see him through the gap in the stall door—well, not him exactly, but I could picture him perfectly. Sitting at his usual table on the fourth floor, dark hair falling into his eyes as he bent over his laptop, probably annotating some dense political theory text with that intense focus that made my thighs clench.
Eighteen months. Eighteen f*****g months I'd been watching him. Wanting him. Going home and f*****g myself with my fingers and toys,
