Page 52 of Rookie Recovery

Do you want to touch me, Kitty?

Fuck, I did. So bad.

I panted with renewed desire as I screeched the truck to a stop at a traffic light. Trying to focus on that light and not on the sounds he’d made through the bathroom door.

Like that groan.

Holy hell, that little groan would linger. I shifted in my seat again, searching for a more comfortable position for my poor untouched dick. He was not giving up this fight, and my wayward, spiraling thoughts did not help him calm down.

The light turned green. My foot slammed on the gas, shooting me forward through the intersection.

I needed a cold shower.

Immediately.

Needed to be home. I’d pick Brady up from the neighbor’s doggie-daycare later. I veered around a turn, bringing my condo building into sight, and relief washed through me. Almost there. This would all be over soon and I could stop thinking about it, stop feeling every memory like a caress. Stop hearing his beautiful little oh fuck over and over on repeat.

The truck shot into the parking garage. I jerked into my normal spot. Luckily, no neighbors lurked in the elevator, because there was no way the boner tenting my dress pants was anything but really fucking obvious. Not at my size.

I slammed my front door behind me.

Locked it.

Leaned against the wood, hot and bothered and breathing too heavily. My dick throbbed, the zipper like a band against it, the rub of my underwear painful against too-tight skin. In my mind’s eye, Bowie’s hand scraped up the line of his cock, dragging my eyes with it.

And I knew, right then and there, no amount of cold water could rinse that from my brain. Ever. I was so fucked. And maybe I had been since we’d pressed together in that alcove—Will you kiss me?

There was only one way to resolve my current situation, and as much as it was the absolute wrong thing to do, I really fucking wanted to do it. Couldn’t not do it. Needed to do it.

If only to get it out of my head.

I let my bag drop to the floor. Didn’t notice where it landed because my fingers were already fumbling with the button of my pants. I wrenched the waistband open, jerked down the fly to give my poor cock a little room to stretch out. I untucked my shirt and ripped it off my shoulders. Let it fall … wherever.

I tugged the band of my underwear away from my hips to lower it down over my very, very erect cock. And at last, at long fucking last, my fingers curled around the shaft.

I groaned.

Relief and desperate need warred inside me as my hand drifted down, thumb curving over the wet head. I should go to my room, get out the lube, do this right. Lie down and wrap slicked, soft fingers around myself, imagine they were his …

But I couldn’t bring myself to move, because I was already imagining that.

Was already picturing his slender hand curled around my cock in place of my own. Gliding over me, jerking me in swift, desperate strokes. While he moaned again.

Oh fuck, oh fuck.

My head tilted against the door, and my fingers picked up speed. The dry slap of skin brought back his same faint sounds through the bathroom door. Re-conjured the images my brain had invented: his eyes half-lidded as he jerked himself to the edge, his hand stroking, hips pumping …

And those filthy fucking moans out of his beautiful filthy fucking mouth. Oh fuck, oh fuck.

Holy shit, I was there. Teetering. My hips thrusting, sending my cock through the circle of my fingers over and over. I barrelled towards release like a train come off the tracks, no turning back now.

Oh fuck, Jamie.

I fell.

Tumbled.

Careened.

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