He still hadn’t looked away.
I stood on the stairs with the laundry basket in my hands and both breasts completely bare.
The tank top hung useless around my waist. Cool air tightened my nipples. Ronan’s eyes stayed locked on them—dark, fixed, hungry. His chest rose and fell once, slow. For a second I thought he was going to climb the stairs, grab me, and finish what he started with that stare.
Instead he turned sharply and walked into the kitchen. I heard a cabinet door slam.
I pulled the tank back up with shaking fingers and carried the basket the rest of the way to my room. My heart was still slamming. He had looked at me like he wanted to put his mouth on me. Then he walked away again.
I sat on the edge of my bed and tried to catch my breath. He was losing control. I could feel it. The way his eyes stayed too long.
The way his hands kept curling into fists. The way he had to force himself to leave.
A minute later my door opened hard.
Ronan stepped inside and shut it behind him. His face was tight. He didn’t sit. He just stood there looking at me like he was angry at both of us.
“What the fuck was that?” he said, voice low and rough.
I stood up. “What?”
“On the stairs. You let the shirt fall and you just stood there.”
“It was an accident.”
“Bullshit.” He took one step closer. “You’re doing this on purpose. No bra. The short shorts. The clothes are all over the house. You’re trying to get a reaction out of me.”
I crossed my arms under my breasts, pushing them up a little on purpose. “Maybe I am.”
His jaw flexed. “Stop it. I’m serious, Elise. Your mother is gone for four days. I told her I would take care of you. That does not mean this.”
“Then stop looking,” I said.
He stared at me for another long second. Then he turned, opened the door, and walked out, closing it harder than necessary.
I smiled to myself.
After that I stopped being careful.
I changed into the shortest pair of shorts I owned—ones that barely covered the curve of my ass—and a thin white t-shirt that got almost see-through if it got even a little damp. No bra. No underwear. I went downstairs and started a load of laundry.
When the washer finished I pulled the wet clothes out and “accidentally” dropped a few pairs of my panties on the floor near the dryer. I left them there.
Ronan walked through the living room later and stopped when he saw them. He picked one up, held it for a second like he didn’t know what to do with it, then dropped it back on the floor and kept walking.
I made sure he saw more.
I stood at the kitchen sink washing a glass and let the front of my t-shirt get wet under the faucet. The thin fabric clung to my bare breasts, nipples clear through the material.
When I turned around Ronan was in the doorway. His eyes dropped straight to my chest and stayed there.
He took one step toward me. His hand started to lift like he was going to touch me. Then he stopped himself, turned around, and left the kitchen without a word.
Every time it happened the same way.
I would walk past him in the hallway and his eyes would follow the bounce of my breasts under the thin shirt. I would bend over to pick something up and feel his gaze on the short hem of my shorts. Once, when I reached up into a high cabinet, the shirt rode up and he saw the bare underside of my breasts. He actually took a step closer that time. His hand brushed my waist for half a second before he pulled it back like he had been burned.
“Elise,” he said, voice tight. “Go put real clothes on.”
I looked at him over my shoulder. “Why? You’re the only one here.”
He didn’t answer. He just walked away again.
By evening the tension in the house felt thick enough to touch.
I went up to my room after dinner and left the door wide open. I sat on the bed with my laptop, pulled up a video, and turned the volume up just enough. The sound of a woman moaning filled the quiet house. I stripped out of the short shorts and the wet t-shirt and sat there naked, legs open, fingers already sliding between my legs.
I didn’t try to be quiet.
I let the wet sounds of my fingers and the soft gasps leave my mouth without holding them back. The porn kept playing.
The woman on the screen was getting fucked hard and loud. I matched her rhythm with my hand, two fingers deep, thumb on my clit, hips rolling against the mattress.
I knew he could hear me.
I wanted him to hear me.
A few minutes later I heard the soft creak of the hallway floor. I didn’t stop. I pushed my fingers deeper and let out a longer, broken sound. The footsteps stopped right outside my open door.
I turned my head just enough to see his shadow on the floor.
Ronan was standing in the hallway, just out of sight. I could hear him breathing. I kept going—faster now, the wet sound of my cunt loud in the quiet room. The woman on the laptop moaned louder. I moaned with her.
The shadow moved.
I saw his hand on the doorframe. His fingers gripped the wood hard. He was about to step inside.
I slowed my fingers and spoke toward the open doorway, voice soft and shaky.
“You can come in if you want.”
The hallway went completely still.
I waited, heart slamming, fingers still buried inside myself, legs still open.
His shadow stayed there for another long second.
Then I heard him take one step forward.