Page 42 of Unleashed

There’s no way it’s Sylvie. She’d announce her presence.

But so would Simone.

She opens her legs wide as I shift to stand along the flattened corner in front of the bathroom door. This room is so full of angles and wasted space. I guess it doesn’t matter when you have money to burn. From here, I could flip on the light, but it would end this...whatever the hell it is.

I laugh, but it sounds like a leaky balloon. “You’re wasting your time. You’re not making me fall for this shit again.” Fool me once... Fuck. I’m always the fool.

My jeans strangle my junk, and I sweep my hand over my annoyed hard-on, begging it to cut me a motherfucking break. Simone’s fingers go to her clit as she rubs, moaning. The light shows her gaping pussy and her wet lips jiggling with her fingers. Holy fuck. To ignore that, I have to be made of stone, and only one body part qualifies as granite.

When I glance into the dark room, Simone stops rubbing her clit to thrust her fingers inside. I try to think of grating things like ranch dressing, the color orange, any Sarah McLaughlin song, grapefruit juice, and Friends. When that doesn’t work, I’m frantic and think of Betsy twerking, Amos squeezing into a Speedo, Gloria raw-dogging her generations-younger boyfriend, eating Shasta’s community cooter, and Grandma Abramson’s profile pic after that train kicked her ass and everything else of hers. Nothing works. I’m fucking dying here. How in the hell do I get myself into these damn situations? I was minding my own fucking business, crying in a corner. I wish my time alcoholic audition had panned out.

Since my hands are too close to my dick, I shove them into my hair, yanking handfuls to distract me. I attempt to beg Simone again to stop, but I can’t form words that won’t make me come in my fucking jeans. Otherwise, I’m in total control.

Plus, what straight man not suffering from a head injury would plead for a woman to stop masturbating in front of him? Zero.

Simone muffles a squeal behind her free hand. Surprising me, she sends her gleaming wet fingers into her mouth, moaning.

I swallow and swing my head back to bang it against the wall. Her breath stutters, and her moans climb several octaves. I lick my lips, remembering the taste as my tongue swirled through her creamy orgasm until it trickled down my chin. I always wiped my chin and then licked it off my hand. If the need to feel my cumshot rushing inside of her, I would’ve eaten all of her orgasms. She was my favorite meal and snack all in one.

The room grows quiet again before I hear an almost desolate sigh. She should be on top of the fucking world after coming like that. Damn her.

I hold my breath and wait for a confrontation or for her to sit there. I don’t know which one is worse.

Then I hear rustling and more silence. Glancing around the corner, I see the room is empty. Blowing a long breath, I tear open my jeans and shove the front of my underwear. With a hand behind my neck, I close my eyes and lean my head back as I pump twice and shoot my wad wherever it lands. The force jerks my hips, so I’m humping the air. “Shit!”

I haven’t come in months, and my dick shoots hot cum like a hands-free Super Soaker. I grit my teeth as my body releases.

As I near the end, I tug my balls, emptying everything I can so nothing like this happens to me on a whim again. I have to get a fucking literal grip on my situation.

Lightheaded, I step back against the wall to gather my bearings.

I hear humming and giggling between my heavy breaths before the door opens and slams shut. Holy fuck. I just participated in a live porn scene. I hope to God whoever that was didn’t film me. I’m so fucked without enjoying the fuck.

I look down at my fast-deflating erection and my orgasm dripping from the waxy leaves, soaking the dirt with heavy thumps.

I use the restroom and clean the plant up some. I try to make it less noticeable in case Brandon gathers evidence for a DNA profile. Talk about an awkward topic for our next office meeting.

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