Page 3 of Polished Off

“You, um, you said my name.” I feel like, at some point, I had a filter between my mouth and my mind. No filter in sight now. Just word salad tumbling out.

“Dammit, Jill, I’m so sorry. This is, fuck, it’s— I’m… Fuck.” The Tate I know is not one to stumble over his words. Then again, I’ve never seen the man immediately after he blasts an orgasm all over my feet, either.

Guess we’re both learning new things about each other today. A dull flush climbs up his scruffy cheeks until he’s as red as I probably am. His hand shakes as he stuffs a still impressively swollen cock back into his shorts and steps over to the sink to wash his hands.

“I…uh…sorry you had to see that. That I did that,” he apologizes. The stiff set of his shoulders and the regret blazing in his eyes as he meets mine in the mirror breaks something in me. For all my wariness around men in general, and my determination to steer clear of his rumored playboy ways, Tate’s my best friend in all the world. I won’t be able to bear it if this inexplicable moment in time ruins our friendship.

“May’s International Masturbation Month!” I blurt, the inane trivia fact being one Shelly and I laughed at when we sketched out a sexy trivia night event weeks ago.

Tate stares at me in surprise, a small smile softening the grim line of his lips. He stands still as a statue while he waits for my reaction to walking in on him mid-wank.

“Guess some folks like to celebrate early and often!” I chirp like a hyper chipmunk. Embarrassment over my continual babbling makes the whole situation worse. “Now would be a really swell time for the earth to open up and swallow me whole.”

“I think that should be my line, yeah, Jilly? After all, I’m the one who…” He rakes a hand through his short, dirty-blond hair, and my eyes follow every motion as hungrily as when he’d used the same hand to work his thick, veiny hardon.

“Um, yeah. I gotta… I gotta… Be right back!” I mumble. Numb legs manage to shuffle me backward out of the men’s room, the pile of bar towels I dropped nearly tripping me.

I have no clue where I’m going or what Tate’s saying, though I almost hear him over the rushing blood past my ears. My feet, still acting of their own volition, carry me back to my office. Fingers, clumsy with distraction, push the door shut and throw the lock.

Tate’s voice is a rumble from the other side of the thick wood, and I imagine he’s asking me to come out and discuss this like rational adults. Like friends. Trouble is, after what just happened, I have no clue where we stand. What would one call a friend who stares at another friend while he hits a Big O while growling her name and nutting on her bare feet?

Chapter

Four

TATE

I’m tempted to label this morning as a monumental cock up. But even thinking the word brings the memory of Jill staring at my dick while I nutted on her feet like a fiend. In all my imaginings of ways I might bust the shackles of my friendzone status, her catching me jerking off wasn’t even on the bingo card.

Maybe a minute passes after she flees in pink-cheeked horror. Maybe an hour does. At this point, time is only relative in the sense that every second is another moment to replay what just happened. I adjust my stubbornly still hard dick in the tangle I’ve made of my boxers and pants, and zip up hastily. Against all probability, my cock’s still half hard and valiantly attempting to chub out completely at the memory of how Jill’s nipples tightened and pressed against her damn T-shirt as she watched me.

At thirty-five, my refractory period should have the beast in my shorts down for the count for at least a half hour. Yet the damn thing refuses to settle down enough for me to chase after her. Then again, I tell myself, she’s seen everything there is to see at this point.

“Jill? Babe, can we talk about what just happened?” I knock on her office door but don’t dare open it without her permission.

In theory, I should be embarrassed. Flogging the log in a bar bathroom, even if said bar is currently closed, was a terrible idea. In my defense, seeing her wet and flushed from the busted pipe, her eyes filled with gratitude for me, knocked the good sense straight out of my head. My body’s reaction to her is universal and constant, but this morning, the way she looked at me as if I were her hero wiped out my control and left my baser needs in control.

It was sneak into the nearest bathroom to relieve the pressure or pin her under me and drive myself so deep inside her she forgets whatever reasons she has for friendzoning me. Neither option was great, but no matter how much I want Jill for my own, I’ll never risk our friendship. If she shot me down for real, directly and unquestionably, I don’t know what I’d do. Probably bleed out all over the ground in front of her, my heart mangled and pathetic.

“Come on, Jill. Please don’t shut me out. I’m really sorry. I’m the one who should be embarrassed, right?” I’ve never pled my case to a woman, but if begging is what it takes to get Jill to open this damn door, I’ll do it.

“Sorry, I just, I need a few minutes. Okay?” Jill’s voice is shaky, and I hate feeling as if I’ve upset her.

“I’ll go to the hardware store and then be back to fix the pipe. Just don’t…don’t hate me. Please. It’s been so long since I…” The words trail off, and I wonder if now’s really the time to spill my guts.

But years of holding back and playing the long game, waiting for Jill to see me as more than her buddy, have gotten me nowhere. While this definitely isn’t the hill I’d have chosen to die on when I got up this morning, maybe there’s no better time than now.

“Since you what?” She’s talking to me, at least, which is more than I had before I started flaying myself open for her. I hate that it’s through a closed door, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

“Since I was with anyone. Fuck, Jill, you’re all I see.” My growled declaration is met with silence. After a few moments, the sound of bare feet pacing the tiles behind the door is the only indication she’s still there.

“But what about when you go out of town?” Doubt rings above disbelief.

“When I go out of town what? Do you think I’m some asshole playboy hooking up with strangers while I’m traveling for installations?” Shock chokes me as the pieces cascade into place.

“You know what, Jill? Don’t answer that. Pretty sure I don’t want to know what type of guy you think I am. Fuck. Fuck!” My fist meets the plaster-covered brick wall next to the door she’s hiding behind as hopeless rage burns me from the inside out.

For so long, I’ve believed with enough care and time I’d be able to break through the ‘just friends’ barrier. That she’d realize we’re meant for each other. Instead, Jill’s spent two years believing I’m the worst sort of hit-and-quit prick.

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