Page 50 of Rookie Recovery

“You sure, Kitty?” His gaze slanted up toward me and his fingers stroked lazily over his sweatpants and down that firm cock, and no, no I was not sure about anything. “If I go in there, you’ll have to listen to me. Every little moan …”

Fuck. I hadn’t thought about that. Nothing about any of this was allowing me to think straight.

I couldn’t do this.

I wasn’t strong enough.

I was going to lunge at that table, crush my mouth to him, wrap my fingers around his cock and stroke him until—

Holy hell. My pants were way, way too tight. Was it visible? I’d never had this happen before, in the office. I could separate my mind from my dick—Except clearly I could not.

I half-stumbled backwards, away from the table, from Bowie, putting my desk and my computer screen between, well, his cock and mine. Wrenched my gaze from his face, angled it towards the bathroom door. I did still have a bathroom. That was good; I needed him out of sight. Even if I had to listen—fuck.

My voice came out choked. “Go ahead, Bowman. If you can.”

He smirked, and I could practically see the filthy thoughts behind that filthy smile. “Knowing you’ll be listening? Of course I can.”

Right. Of course. Right. I stumbled farther back until the backs of my knees hit my desk chair. And I’d enabled this, told him to …

He hopped off the table, his hand still pressed down over his erection. “Let me grab some of this lube—”

“Massage oil,” I said, the words way, way too breathy. My gaze crept sideways towards his lean frame—and I wrenched it away again.

“Right.” He leaned over the counter. Sticking his ass out in a very, very suggestive position—eyes away, Jamie. “Massage lube.”

Jesus. I was going to have a heart attack. Especially as he turned to me, and his gaze dropped down my chest, waist, lower—eyes widening into big, green coins. His fingers slid along the front of his pants in a deliberate rubbing motion, and he stepped backwards towards the bathroom. “Offer still stands, Kitty. You want to touch me?”

So. Fucking. Much.

I sat down in my chair. Hard. Wrenched my gaze away from his hand on his cock and stared at the ceiling and imagined buckets of cold water. About diving into that icy lake—while he watched.

I couldn’t do this. “Just … go.”

He took another step backwards. Shoulders hit the bathroom door and his hand crept up towards his waistband. Fingers dipped beneath the elastic and I fought hard not to look. To keep my eyes up …

He pushed the door open. “I’ll be thinking about you.”

The door snicked closed behind him. Leaving me sitting there with the enormity of the situation pressing down on me.

I’ll be thinking of you.

You’ll have to listen to me.

Every moan …

I’ll be thinking of you.

What the actual fuck was I supposed to do? Jack in the trash can? Sit with my legs crossed until he left, and then go jack in the bathroom? I’d never done that at work. Or in a medical office. I couldn’t even leave because if anybody saw me—or my pants …

My hands were already pre-lubed.

No way. No.

I needed cold-shower thoughts. To talk myself down. Calm the hell d—

“Oh, fuck,“ Bowie groaned from behind the door. My dick went, impossibly, harder. “Fuck me.”

My ears didn’t need to strain to hear the distinctive slap of skin on skin. The gasps of breath. The faint moans. My zipper dug into my cock through my underwear, which was so hard it hurt. Ached. Begged to be touched. Could I really sit here and listen and not do anything …

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