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Why did he miss her so damn much?
That thought didn't come like a whisper. It struck him like a hammer. One moment he was quiet, steady. The next, he was shaking slightly, jaw clenched, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to dig its way out.
Was it guilt… for touching her so casually? For teasing her like a boy poking a flame and pretending not to care if he got burned?
Was it regret—for not biting that stamp shaped on her melon-soft chest, even when his mouth had hovered above it for a breathless second?
Maybe it was when her bathrobe traced the edge of her curves, the thin cloth barely hiding the shape of her. His eyes had wandered, his instincts stirred, and his body had responded without mercy. He remembered that ache… the twitch in his muscles, the heat in his blood… the shame in pulling away before he lost control of his Ant rod.
But no. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't a regret. It was worse. It was fear.
