Page 29 of Cohen's Control

I look down at my lap, finding my cock hard, running down my thigh. I stare at it. Reaching out, Ialmostdrop my palm to the head. Ialmostfeel the length of my erection.

Almost.

Panic barrels through me.

My eyes veer between the computer screen—what I should be focused on—and my lap. I can’t stop looking at my engorged, thick erection.

I have an erection.

And it feels fucking good.

I don’t just mean in my cock, either. Everywhere, my chest and my head aren’t angry, they don’t fill me with guilt and remind me what I don’t deserve. I just sit there, with my hard cock, feeling good, for the first time in a long time.

Because of Scarlett.

That night in my room, lying in bed, watching the small ceiling fan rotate in lazy circles, I can’t sleep. I glance at my gym bag and consider getting up and going for a swim, but I know if I do that, I really won’t sleep.

I force my eyes closed, because sometimes that works.

Tonight, it doesn’t. Tonight, with my eyes closed, I feel her hand on my shoulder. I feel the heat her words inspired, the vulnerability of her tone. It washes down my back, through my veins, into my limbs—everywhere.

Reaching under the covers, I slip my hand beneath the elastic waist of my sweats and underwear. A rush of hot breath surges past my lips as I grip my cock.

It's been ages since I’ve touched myself with the intent to do more than fucking take a piss. I haven’t had those urges, not sincebefore.

Until today.

Fanning out my fingers underneath my cock, I hold myself loosely as I harden. Poor guy hasn’t been man handled in so long, a simple touch has him turning to stone.

I stroke my finger tip along the thick vein running up the underside of my shaft. It feels… good. From somewhere above me, maybe the second floor, could even be the third, a cell phone rings. It’s not uncommon to hear a phone ringing at this time—teenagers, after all.

But it rips me back to reality.

Pulling my hand out of my pants, I let my cock tent the bedsheets for a few minutes before my erection wilts away. I can’t bring myself to touch it again.

I know I should jump on this opportunity considering I’d convinced myself two years ago that I had become fully impotent.

But I don’t just think of Scarlett; I also remember them. That night. The ringing phone. The high pitched screaming. The promises to God. The disbelief.

I finally fall asleep, though when it happens, light is already streaming in through the old Victorian window.

Bags line my eyes and my entire face feels heavy. I miss the leg hole of my jeans twice and nearly topple over. I’ve yawned enough that my jaw burns and when I snatch my gym bag off the chair, I realize… I don’t have the energy for a swim.

I don’t know if I’ll be anxious all day without the energy spent in the morning, because swimming is part of my normal routine and has been for years. But I’m groggy and yawning and—

My therapist always says,the worst lie you can tell is the one you tell yourself.

I’m not going to swim this morning because I’m eager to get to work. Something roils in my gut telling me that I need to see Scarlett. I collect my phone from the nightstand and open a new text message, type S to populate her name. I only have a few contacts, so my phone knows just who I’m searching for.

In the body of the message I type and delete things, sweat beading along my neck. I finally go with simple.

Cohen

How are you?

I hold my phone, screen unlocked, and watch the message. No blue dots appear, and no read receipt materializes. I glance at the top of the phone and see that it’s only six in the morning. Somehow when I try to tell myself that she’s just asleep and hasn’t seen it, I can’t bring myself to believe it. But I don’t know why.

There’s stirring in the house, and in order to not make small talk or get roped into a playful family discussion that leaves me remembering what I lost, I throw on my jacket and head out the back, ducking into my car as quickly as possible.

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