Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Moaning, I work my fingers in and out, over and over again.
I should feel embarrassed that I’m masturbating over a man who is way out of my league, horrified, but I am too far gone in the devastating spiral of ecstasy to stop now.
The thought of Grayson walking in and seeing me pleasing myself has my fingers moving faster, crudely. I finger-fuck myself for several long minutes until stars blister before my eyes and my muscles coil tight.
I can smell his sweat-slicked skin in the air, taste its saltiness on my tongue. It drives me wild with desire and has me coming undone in a shamefully quick timeframe.
My thighs shake as the wetness of my arousal coats my palm. I move my hips in rhythm with my thrusting fingers as an effortless smirk pushes me over the edge.
As the hunger for skin-on-skin friction ignites inside me, I twist and moan. Then I shake through a brutal orgasm.
Grayson’s name leaves my throat in a mangled roar as floating lights dance in front of my eyes.
A groan cuts short the brilliance of my long and draining climax.
While shooting my eyes to the door, I yank my hand out from beneath the sheets like they’re not hiding the immorally corrupt activity I just undertook. The door is ajar, but there’s no shadow behind it, no witnesses to my farce, though the faintest glimpse of white laces under the hallway table announces that wasn’t the case only seconds ago.
Grayson’s shoes are once again under the hallway table, which sits mere inches from my once again open bedroom door.
Shit.
19
GRAYSON
As I pace the living room, the silence is only broken by the hum of the overworked refrigerator and the soft, cadenced whistles of Macy’s breaths from behind her bedroom door. I should feel victorious. Only an hour ago, I was the better man. Despite what I am confident were flirtatious insinuations firing from Macy, I didn’t cross any lines. I said goodnight, ensured she knew the purpose of the oil a DoorDash driver delivered earlier today, and then left her to navigate toward a peaceful slumber without interference.
However, I stomped over the truce I drew in the sand when I lowered the handle of Macy’s bedroom door instead of leaving it shut, as I found it.
With my hands shoved in my running shorts and my jaw tight, I pace the living room. I keep replaying the moment I saw the bottle of massage oil on Macy’s nightstand, and how it confirmed my suspicion that Macy wasn’t asleep this time when I heard her moan. The cap of the oil was twisted off, and the air smelled of lavender and something sweeter.
I know what that means. I know what she was doing and who she was thinking about while doing it. Hell, I heard my name leave her lips. The erotic noise was muffled by the ruffling of the sheets barely concealing the stimulating visual playing out before my eyes, but it couldn’t be mistaken.
I try to shake off how her moan of my name while conscious makes me feel. I’m not that guy. I would never exploit a vulnerable woman, especially Macy. She’s my friend and coworker and, if I were honest, the only person who’s made me feel alive in years. Yet, I can’t disregard how my body responds to her and how my heart races when she’s nearby. I also can’t stop thinking about the sound of her moans.
I need to escape and clear my head, but I’ve already been for a run, so instead of reaching for the shoes I toed off in silence, like I knew my quiet would greatly reward me, I head to the bathroom.
Determined to wash away the sins clinging to my skin, I don’t notch the faucet anywhere near the hot. The water is icy, and it pounds against my back, numbing the ache my chest hasn’t been without for a second today.
With a scratchy loofah, I scour my skin raw, striving to erase the memory of Macy’s flushed cheeks, parted lips, and the way her body arched beneath the sheets.
It’s useless. The harder I fight, the more vivid the images become. Before I know it, I fist my cock and stroke it to the beat of the frantic quiver of my jaw.
Unlike the first time I masturbated in this shower, I don’t turn my back to the unlocked bathroom door. I face it while punishing my cock with long, hard jerks.
I want Macy to walk in on me, to burst my privacy bubble as dishonorably as I did hers.
Christ, the thought of her standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching me, doubles the throbs of my dick. I want her to watch me. I want to show her what she does to me.
To show her what I want her to do to me.