Page 16 of Eye Candy

You got it, Kiwi. Now, do you want the first half in cash?

Did ripping off tit tape hurt?

CHAPTER 8

CHASE

It wastwo a.m. and I couldn’t sleep.

After three hours of hoping a different position and slow breathing would do the trick, I gave up and went out to the living room to sink down on the sofa. My laptop was on the coffee table. I thought about getting ahead on some blog posts, or emailing the guy who arranged my travel and rebooking my vacation. But I couldn’t even give him new dates, as I didn’t know how long I would need to stay in New York now.

Alone in my apartment, in the dark, I could finally admit that the most unsettling thing about the woman pretending to be Teddy Bircher wasn’t that she was a fraud, impersonating an heiress to harass my brother.

It was that she made me think about fucking.

Hard fucking. Sweaty fucking. Fucking until neither of us could stand.

Fucking,fucking.

Of course, no one but me was responsible for the direction of my thoughts. But the way the woman flirted like a runaway trainsent my imagination down a filthy path. I remembered her kneeling on the floor in front of me, her breasts swinging over the chessboard as she tried to distract me.

My dick thickened at the memory. I wanted to tell it to stop, to cut it out, because we didn’t get hard for dishonesty—but apparently I was a liar as well as a perve. Guilt crept up the back of my neck, but the ache in my briefs demanded capitulation.

It’s so wrong to think about her like this.

But alone in the dark, with spilled light from the city my only witness, I shoved my conscience out of my head and pushed my hand down, freeing my aching erection from my underwear. I wrapped my hand around my cock and hissed. My balls were heavy—pretending Fake Teddy didn’t affect me like this had made me overready.

I imagined her on the floor in front of me, stretching over my coffee table like she had when we’d played chess, only in my mind, she rolled those pink sweats all the way over her hips and down to her knees, arching her naked ass at me.

She’d say something teasing, no doubt.

‘See something you like?’

Or,‘you know you want this.’

Because of my blog, people often assumed I was celibate. There was nothing wrong with being celibate, of course, but I wasn’t personally. I was exacting about establishing trust and discussing parameters, and I had to know someone well enough to be able to read them; to trust they felt confident to be honest with me. But once that was covered, I liked to think I applied myself thoroughly.

I definitely didn’t need my partner to schedule sex acts in my calendar.

I spat in my hand and groaned as the moisture made the slide of my hand faster. Pulling myself in long, punishing strokes, I fantasized about what the imposter would be like in bed. She’d be a sassy brat.

My cock throbbed and I grunted.

Fuck, I like this.

I imagined her underneath me, begging me to go harder, goading me into giving her more. I would never have to second-guess myself with this woman—she wouldn’t feel shame or inhibition about asking for what she liked.

‘More, softer, faster, not there, there,’ she would say.

In my fantasy, she trusted me enough to give me control, and I could relax into the role, knowing that there wasn’t a single thing in the world that this woman would politely endure if she wasn’t into it.

I stroked faster, imagining her leaning over in front of me, spreading her legs so I could see her rubbing her clit. As her fingers slid over her wet pussy, those slippery sounds I loved would fill the air. Would she come with a soft sigh, going boneless in front of me? Or would she scream the house down, as loud in her pleasure as she was in my thoughts?

My brain didn’t want this woman—she was deceitful and chaotic—but my cock definitely did.

I pumped myself rapidly, desperate to rid myself of this need she’d planted in me. Tension collected in my balls, and I grunted as hot, milky spurts erupted over my fist, rolling over my hand and onto my stomach. I didn’t stop, squeezing every drop from my softening cock, unable to let go of the idea that this was a purge; a way to fuck her out of my mind.

I fumbled for a tissue and wiped away the evidence of my lapsed judgment.

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