Page 20 of Filthy Sweet

I spit in my palm and shove my hand in my panties. Whimpering, I rub my balls, eyes closed as I think about Fox. My cock gets harder, and my tender crown aches against the soft scratch of the lacy fabric as precum leaks from my slit. The panties rub my sensitive head, sending feedback waves of torturous pleasure down my shaft.

I fist my erection, my hand wet with precum, massaging up and down. Maybe Fox liked how I looked. I imagine him dragging his tongue all over my body, rolling my nipples in his mouth, licking my rim. He coats my face with his orgasm and takes me from behind, still hard.

Moaning, I kick my legs, pumping my cock faster. I think about Fox later tonight, jerking his fat cock and remembering me in my panties. My balls pull up tight, and I tug on them, dragging out my pleasure as I fantasize about us both pumping our shafts in rhythm.

“Fuck me,” I whimper into the couch, thrusting my ass back. “Fill me with cum. Fuck yeah.”

Light flashes behind my eyelids. I can practically feel his sticky release on my lips, dripping out of my hole, smeared across my chest.

With a gasp, I hit my climax, soaking the panties with hot jets of semen.

Slowly, I catch my breath, and the room stops spinning.

I’m spent, but I already want more.

Chapter Eight

Fox

Usually,no matter what fucked-up thing happens in my life, I can talk to Reggie about it. He’s the guy who straightens me out when I get twisted around. Keeper of my secrets and all that crap.

So the fact that I can’t talk to him about Owen makes things especially complicated.

The concert is Friday night. Despite having all week, once it’s time to pick up Owen, I still haven’t figured out what in the hell I’m doing. The way I feel toward him confuses me, like my emotions are crashing into each other.

I’m used to understanding myself, knowing what I want. Sex. Money. Independence. When I crave something, I go out, and I get it. It doesn’t matter what it’s going to cost me or how long it’s going to take. It doesn’t matter what other people think. I know what I’m capable of, and I get what I want.

But how I want Owen is different. It scares me. I want him a thousand different ways at once. I want to get him in trouble and take care of him and fuck him. I want to do stuff with him that doesn’t make any fucking sense.

“Reggie’s brother,” I grumble to myself. “I don’t do relationships. Owen’s too good for me.” I buzz his apartment from the street and, while I walk up the stairs, I try to think up a few more reasons acting on this would be a bad, bad idea. “I might hurt him. We’re too different.”

“Hi,” Owen says, popping the door open. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, and I notice that he’s cleaned his beard up, bringing it closer to stubble, and cut his hair short at the sides. “How’s it going?”

Immediately, I wonder how it feel to rub my thumb across his soft cheek.

Fuck.

“Hey.” I offer him a quick hug and try not to notice his scent, kind of like mint tea. “I’m good. Glad to have some company for this concert.”

“Thanks again for having me.”

The car’s waiting on the street, and once he’s ready, I slowly walk him down, my boots hard on the pavement. “The opening act should be on now. We’ll do a loop, make sure we’re seen, and if the music’s any good, we can stay and enjoy.” I open the door for him. “Sound good?”

Owen brushes past me. “Sure!” He slides into the car. “You don’t know if the music will be any good?”

I join him and give the driver a nod. “The band’s mediocre. Butterfly Susan. But a couple of bigwigs are throwing everything behind her, and everyone who is trying to impress the money will come out.” I cock a smile. “Hence the venue for our fake relationship.”

Owen laughs. “I guess it’s good practice for whenever I have a real relationship.” He blinks. “That sounded self-deprecating. Sorry.”

“It didn’t,” I tell him honestly. Owen’s hesitant, but he’s not a negative person. “Any luck on the dating front?”

“No,” he answers, and I try not to feel relieved because he should date someone. Preferably someone more appropriate than me.

“I guess I’ve been preoccupied with work,” Owen adds.

“Yeah.” I nod. “I get it. If my work didn’t involve going out, I wouldn’t have time for much of a social life.”

“Any tips?” he asks gently. “For someone not used to navigating crowds of cool people?”

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