Stiles slammed his laptop shut as he walked over to the widow, cracking it so he could speak to Summer. “H-hey… Uh… Whatcha doing?”
“You are a liar,” she snarled. “When I touched you a minute ago, you jerked back and went ‘what the hell was that’ just like you felt something. Besides — the other thing.” She shifted, starting to get up, and half-swallowed a moan at the way her jeans rubbed against her. It was ironic that it wasn’t even her shields that were keeping her forebrain in control right now; it was years of wanting and telling herself ‘no’. Swallowing hard, she muttered, “I cannot leave you alone like this.”
“Because you fucking jumped back like I hurt you!” Stiles groaned hearing her moan. “I’ll jerk off or something. You’re not helping.”
“It was like being hit in the face with a paintbomb of emotion, okay?” Summer bit her lip and dragged herself to her knees. “And whatever is going on with you, if I touch you it goes right past my shields. It’s practically fucking contagious, and I’m /still/ not leaving you alone without trying to help. Real help.”