Page 92 of Butterfly Effect

I press my ear to the door.

Gasps. Whimpers. Buzzing.

Oh, my fucking God.

I fumble to unlock my phone to open the security app.

Lo, and behold. I can hardly believe it, but the camera doesn’t lie.

Gabe Finch is playing with herself on my fucking bed. And she isn’t alone.

Chapter 16

Look at the Mess You’ve Made

Gabe

Sleepingwith Wade Boehner once was fine.

Twice? Huge mistake.

Between those two times and the way he eats me out like it’s his job, it’s all I can think about.

Him strutting in, in a stupid Ottawa Regents tee seemingly custom fit to his stupid muscular build and stupid hoochie shorts showing off his toned quads, doing stupid pliés in Barre class? No help at all. The whole hand-kissing, waist-gripping, and longing whispers had me so riled up that I wondered if I should be committed.

Instead, I work on getting myself off with Mr. Darcy in Pretty Boy’s bed, hoping he shows up in time to see me finish.

I sink the firm, bubblegum pink silicone toy into myself over and over but can’t seem to find a satisfying rhythm.

My mind wanders to his control at the barre. Of course, he’s strong and flexible. He’s a professional athlete. Those hip and groin stretches hockey players do on the ice? Goalies are adifferent breed. The man can do the splits with fifty pounds of gear on, no sweat.

Which means fucking me deep would be a piece of cake.

“Oh, God,” I groan as the dildo vibrates past my G-spot, searching for the spot higher up.

The fantasy replaces the memory of riding him until he tore the previous headboard off.

That does the trick. I speed up the vibration and press the fake dick’s tip into my clit. I moan.

My head whips back to the new headboard, the coil of pleasure tightening low in my core.

“Wade…”

Thud-thud-thud!

I whip forward and nearly lose control of the vibrator at the banging.

“Gabe!” an angry Wade yells behind the door.

All hope for an orgasm is gone. I plot vengeance through a growl.

“Who is it?” I call back in my sweetest tone, knowing fully well who it is. “I’m kinda busy right now.” My haste omitted panty removal. The flimsy, tangled lace looks fucking ridiculous shrouding the pink cock.

“No shit! I can see you fucking yourself on the security camera.” A black lens in the corner shifts and zooms with a buzz. “Open the goddamn door!”

“Ugh, you’re a creep.” I drive the toy in and out of my pussy rapidly and fake moan, eyes rolling for good measure. Men can’t tell if it’s the real thing anyway. “If you—can see me,” I say through exaggerated, high-pitchedohs, “then you know—I can’t open it.”

“I swear to God, I’ll fucking break it down,” he shouts. The door and its frame shudder, and I’m wetter.

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