Page 34 of Rook

“If we were really dating, there’d have to be some sexy texts in there on occasion.”

“True,” I agreed, looking back down at the text, knowing that I had to respond.

“Gonna top mine off,” Rook said, lifting his mug. “Want more?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

It was his absence that allowed me to think straight again. Then my fingers were moving across the keys.

I’ve been wet since I left your place this morning.

In the kitchen, Rook’s phone buzzed, then a strange, strangled sound escaped him.

I watched as he sucked in a deep breath before his fingers moved across his screen.

Don’t worry. I can take care of that for you. You can ride my face until your thighs are trembling and your throat hurts from crying out.

My face felt flushed as Rook casually walked back to the couch like nothing happened, like my sex wasn’t suddenly aching.

I shifted my position, cocking my legs to the side, my thighs pressed tightly together to ease the ache growing between.

Then I reached for my phone.

Mmm. And then what?

I kept my gaze on the TV, pretending to be as casual as possible—no throbbing pussy here—but I saw in my periphery as Rook glanced in my direction.

Then his fingers were moving again.

Then you can move down and take my cock deep inside you.

I clenched my thighs as my imagination went wild with that text.

At least I wasn’t the only one affected. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rook reaching down to try to discreetly adjust himself.

What if I want you to be on top?

Rook paused for just a second before he tapped out his reply.

Well, if you’re a good girl and come around my cock while you’re riding me, I will toss you onto your back and fuck you until you’re screaming.

I was pretty sure a little throaty sound escaped me in response to that one, but I hoped it was quiet enough that Rook didn’t hear.

I needed to get a grip. This was getting out of control. Or, rather, my hormones were.

This time, when I typed out a message, I felt my lips curving up at how jarring sexy texts were when butted up against normal, everyday conversations.

I’m leaving work now. See you in a few.

The conversation died then. The effects of it lingered, though. It didn’t seem to matter how much time passed as we sat there; my sex was still aching.

Eventually, I excused myself and went into the bathroom, scrubbed the tub, then filled it and climbed inside.

Then I went ahead and let my hand slide between my thighs, ignoring all the pesky thoughts about how this might be blurring a line, how I needed to keep my walls up so this whole situation didn’t blow up in my face.

All that mattered was easing the clawing need between my thighs, so I didn’t do something even more stupid and walk out of the bathroom and climb on Rook.

The last thing we needed was for our fake relationship to get messy with real-life feelings and complications.

---