Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I swallow. “Good night, Poppy.”
She stops outside her bedroom door. “Hey.”
I look up.
“Thanks again for the drink.”
I nod, heat flickering low in my stomach. “Anytime.”
She disappears inside, closing her door with a soft click and I stand for several seconds, exhaling through my nose.
Inside my room, I toe off my shoes, peel my shirt over my head, tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of the laundry basket. My jeans hit the floor next. I kick them off with unnecessary aggression, as if they’re to blame for this sudden, full-body need crawling beneath my skin.
I sit on the edge of the bed in my boxer briefs, elbows on knees, trying to not think about her mouth.
Her laugh.
The way her fingers had curled around my wrist when she said thank you for the drink like it wasn’t the softest, most devastating contact of my life.
It’s fine. Everything is fine.
This is normal. People flirt. People have moments. And then they go to their separate bedrooms and pretend they’re not imagining each other on the other side of the wall.
Naked.
I scrub my hands over my face and climb into bed, rolling onto my back, the sheets cool against my overheated skin.
Tomorrow, I will be more of a gentleman. Tomorrow, I’ll be less of a pervert.
Tonight, I just need…
I get comfortable against my pillows, feeling around the comforter for the TV remote, clicking on Netflix to the last documentary I’d been watching.
Close my eyes, running my hand over my stomach, down into my briefs.
I lift my hips to shove down the waistband, freeing my dick, making it easier to stroke.
Bare legs.
Pink lace.
The sway of her hips as she moved to the stove, completely unaware she was frying my brain right along with those eggs.
My chest rises. Falls.
Hand strokes, up and down my hard cock… picturing Poppy behind my closed lids but doing my best to picture someone else. Anyone else. An Only Fans model. An ex-girlfriend’s tits. Whatever celebrity.
All I see is tan, round ass.
I stroke harder, teeth biting down on my lower lip, willing my orgasm to arrive, needy, urgent.
Fuck it feels so good…
I imagine her mouth swallowing me… eyes looking up as she takes me as deep as he can.
Up, down, up, down…
I groan softly, shifting my hips.
Spreading my legs wider.
I need to get laid… My cock wants to fuck…
Imagine her above me. Riding me in nothing but that pink bra, while I lean up to suck on her rosy nipples through the fabric as she fucks me.
My tongue wets my lips, chest rising and falling…
So hard.
I play with myself, fondling my balls, pressing down on my taint the way I envision Poppy would.
I moan with pleasure when the first wave of an orgasm surges its way through my veins, starting in my toes… up my legs, causing them to shake a little.
Goddamn it feels good.
Haven’t jerked off in ages, either.
Might be time to start doing it on a more regular basis.
Eyes closed, head tilted back against the pillows, I let out a low breath as I come, jizzing in my palm. My hand slows, easing through the last remnants of release. I’m too blissed out to care about anything—
“Oh my god!”
The voice hits me like a punch to the chest.
My eyes snap open and I meet my roommate’s startled expression, her eyes on my dick, on my face, back to my dick.
Jesus Christ…
My door slams shut so hard the walls shake.
I sit upright in bed, heart slamming against my rib cage like it’s trying to escape.
She saw.
Oh she definitely saw.
My hand drifts to the sheets—instinct, maybe—and I feel it. I’m still hard. Worse, I’m getting harder.
Jesus Christ.
Underneath that shame, curling low in my gut like smoke?
Desire.
The thought that she saw me doing something naughty—the way I’d seen her, practically naked.
Good. Give her something to dwell on, the way I’ve been fantasizing about her.
I shift against the sheets again, breath slowing. Still wired. Still pulsing. Still half-hard and nowhere near sleep. I grip my swollen dick and begin a slow, languid stroke…
I’m not some teenage boy.
I’m a grown man, and I’m not sorry.
poppy
. . .
The sound of Turner’s TV filters faintly through the door, a low rumble of something dramatic and manly—sounds like a nature documentary about competitive lumberjacking? Or Naked and Afraid. Hard to tell from out in the hallway, but he does seem like the kind of guy who’d enjoy those things or maybe he doesn’t; it’s not like I know him.
Big muscles. Masculine to his core, with a soft, gooey shell.
I haven’t known him long, but he’s a big, giant lab. Much like the resident dog, Nugget, I have yet to meet.
I hold a wine glass in one hand and an unopened bottle in the other, standing in front of his door, hesitating like a rookie.
This is fine.
We had a good time tonight!