Page 40 of The Fix

“I, um …”

“Exactly.” His eyes roll, the whites a severe contrast to the darkness in his irises. “How can this bitch have a positive DNA test when she hasn’t compared the shit to my DNA?”

I release a puff of air in Toby’s face. “But what about the tape?”

“Of?”

“I …” I don’t know.

“Right,” he spits, shaking his head. “You assumed, didn’t you?”

“I …”

He rolls his tongue along his teeth, the flash of pink flesh doing enough to me that I can’t form a thought, let alone a rebuttal.

“Did you even watch it, Anna?” he snarls and snags my wrist off of the counter. “Watch me sink this dick”—he punctuates it by placing my willing hand between his legs—“inside her pussy? Bareback and ready to make her cum?”

If it’s possible, my entire body throbs when he bumps my palm against his groin and—

Oh, God, he’s hard.

My heart is ready to pound right out of my chest, but he doesn’t stop there.

Instead, he cups my hand, clamping my grip around him, and my fingers instinctively wrap along the hardness behind his athletic shorts.

“Ung … Mama,” he nearly whimpers and leans in, his lips grazing my temple. “The only pussy I’m coming inside is the one I know is mine.”

I can’t stop the shudder that overtakes me, the heat that floods my lower stomach and beyond if I dare to admit it.

“But I’m not the bike that comes with training wheels.” The grip cupping my hand squeezes, then disappears, leaving a frozen chill in his wake.

I pant against the countertop, while Toby returns to the stove. “Thirty minutes until dinner’s ready.” He glances over his shoulder, the heat in his gaze scorching me. “Why don’t you go take care of that?”

His words send a shiver down my spine, and without hesitation, I clamor to the bedroom, needing to distance myself from him as fast as possible.

Chapter Twenty

Toby

Fucking hell, I need a drink.

Her hand wrapped around my cock?

Fuuuuuck.

I’ve spent the last several minutes picturing what it would feel like to not have the barrier. Feel her hand on my bare cock. To see if her pussy is as tight as she is, and now I’m so fucking hard, there’s nothing I can do to make this rager go down.

But whiskey will.

I’m halfway across the living room when I hear her door open and I can’t stop my feet from freezing like I’ve been caught. Halting my escape to go take care of myself in the form of a sip.

What if she’s coming out for me?

“It smells amazing,” she calls down the hallway, the patter of her soles hitting the tile and bouncing around in my skull like a tease of what could be.

Did she make herself come?

I have half a mind to just fucking ask her but I feel like my torture will only continue either way.

---