Page 56 of Finance Bros

“Breathe,” he tells me.

I do. It’s sharp, fast, jagged and embarrassing as fuck. It doesn’t help. “You can’t just?—”

“No talking.”

“Fuck that,” I grit out. “You can’t just touch someone like this without their permission.”

“I couldn’t figure out a way to ask. Forgive me?”

I think I hate the word forgive. The whole concept of forgiveness in general. “Fuck you,” I say with no heat whatsoever.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No.”Yes, goddamnit, everything he does hurts me. His existence is a festering wound on my soul. I have to admit, when I was thinking about games, I was thinking it’d be verbal—not physical. This is going way beyond my field of expectations.

“Then may I?”

Shame on me, shame on my stupid ass. “Yes. Fuckingasshole,” I add under my breath.

He relaxes his grip and lets his hand rest there, like it was originally. “Thank you,’” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I don’t know why I say that. Nothing about this is fine. What was only a mild remembering of wanting him is now a raging inferno of need—specifically for a hand job.

We sit like that for a while. A few dozen seconds. A minute where I deep breathe and try to focus on the pulse in my neck and not the one throbbing in my groin. Despite any mindfulness techniques he suggested or I attempt, I have a significant erection, but his hand is more in the region of my shaft and balls. The sensitive tip has moved out of the way, and I hope he stays the fuck away from it because it’ll start leaking any second, and the last thing I want to be iswet for him.

Right now, there’s just a hand on my cock. I’d probably get hard if it were my hand, too, just like anyone would. Leaking only happens when I’m genuinely aroused, but I don’t know what he’ll read into it.

Enough.He’ll know enough.

I start to wonder if he’s ever going to move.As much as Iwant him to stop, there’s a big part of me, no pun intended, that wants him to do more.

“Talk to me, Mal.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks quietly.

“I want you to tell me what the fuck you’re doing.”

“I’m feeling your dick.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to know what it felt like.”

“Again…why?”

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about. A lot.”

“Say more,” I demand, and it comes out like a growl. It’s taking effort not to move. And I’m not talking about moving away. I’m talking about lifting my hips and rubbing my cock up and down his hand.

“So, you’re straight?” he asks.

“More or less,” I say, aware that now’s not exactly the time I can assert my “straightness” to its full effect.

“How’s that work?” he asks.

“I’ve never been with a guy. Just girls.”

“Never?”

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