“Did I say that?” I nervously laugh. “I meant that I care, I care about your well-being but not like . . . you know, other things.”
“Actually, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
Yeah, Posey, what the hell are you talking about?
Can’t be sure.
I’m distracted.
Her breasts are ready to pop out of that towel. There’s nothing but terrycloth between us, and I can’t stop myself from getting hard.
Pathetic and creepy, I get it!
You don’t have to tell me.
I wish I could smack my dick into shape, but out of fear I might come from a whisper of a breeze, I couldn’t possibly punish it for being out of control.
“You know . . .” I tug on my hair. “I think I’m tired. Sleep-deprived and jet-lagged are not a good combo. So to sum up this conversation, you can use my soap, finish off in my shower, and I care if you’re fine.”
Her gleamingly beautiful smile nearly makes me weep. “Good to know. And thank you. I really appreciate it.”
With that, she takes off down the hallway, and my eyes trail her, watching the towel climb up against the bubble of her ass just as she disappears into my room.
I drag my hands over my face and groan into my palms.
I won’t last this. There is no fucking way.
And did she have to say naked and wet? I mean, it was obvious, but she didn’t have to point it out.
I don’t think I can keep this inside me. I have to tell someone. I need someone to bounce ideas off and combat this internal hell I’m living in.
I consider going into my room to grab my phone, but knowing her, she left the bathroom door wide open. She doesn’t seem to have any issues with privacy. She just lets it all out.
So instead of doing anything, I just sit here, twiddling my fingers and taking calming breaths. I was so desperate to get over this aching feeling inside me that I watched a twenty-minute video on YouTube on how to combat horniness through meditation.
I take deep breaths, envisioning a peaceful meadow, waves of green bristling against the wind. Puffy clouds against a bright blue sky. And Wylie, running toward me, her tits bouncing against her threadbare tank top tempting the elasticity of the fabric.
Annnnnnd . . . I’m hard all over.
I pick up a throw pillow, place it against my face, and scream into it, only to lower the pillow and find Wylie standing there, drying her hair while wearing one of my hockey shirts.
Mother.
Of.
God.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
No.
I’m not.
I want to fuck you.
I want to bury myself between your legs.
I want to live there for days on end, making you come on my tongue over and over again just so I can watch you writhe against the mattress.
I want to feel you squeeze my cock.
I want to feel your slick pussy, bare, with nothing between us.
I want to hear you cry out my name until your voice is hoarse.
I want to be rid of this ache that’s holding my dick hostage.
I FUCKING WANT YOU!
I tack on a smile, painfully aware of my desperation. “Yup, everything is great.”
“Okay because it looked like you were screaming into a pillow.”
“Stubbed my toe,” I reply. “Got me good.”
“Ooo, I hate when that happens. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Because I can take care of it for you if you want. Ice it. Massage. Suck on it . . .” She winks, and I nearly choke on my own saliva. Suck. On. It. Yes, I fucking want you to suck on it—it being my cock that is weeping for you.
I nervously laugh. “Uh, not needed. I’ll survive.”
She clutches her chest. “You’re so brave. By the way, I hope it’s okay that I’m wearing one of your shirts. I thought it would be better than a wet towel.”
I prefer the wet towel.
Actually, if I’m taking requests, no clothes would be best. And if you want, you can sit on my lap to air dry if you need to.
“Yeah, totally cool.”
“Great because I might keep it. You have like twenty of these in your closet, and it’s the perfect nighttime shirt.” She moves over to the living room and takes a seat next to me. Okay, so she’s sitting down, that’s what’s happening. Be cool, man. “Have you looked through the social media posts I’ve made? People are loving them.”
“I haven’t. I’ll be sure to look through them.” I keep my eyes forward and not on the way her tits sway against the loose fabric of my shirt.
“Some of your female fans are using the hashtag, Pretty Posey.” She props her head on her hand while leaning against the back of the couch and asks, “Were you aware that you’re pretty?”
“Uh, I prefer handsome, but sure, I do tend to look at myself in the mirror and think, wow, you’re a good-looking man.”
She laughs. “How often? Every time you look in the mirror?”
I rub my palms on my thighs, still looking straight ahead. “I average about once a day.”
“You know, it’s good to have confidence. As long as that confidence doesn’t turn into cockiness.”
“Cockiness isn’t bad,” I reply while I pretend to pick a piece of lint off my shirt. Anything to avoid looking at her.
“Maybe on the ice, but when dealing with women, it’s bad. It’s kind of a turnoff.”
That piques my interest, so I turn toward her. “You’d rather have a blubbering mess trying to hit on you than a guy who’s sure of himself?”
She smiles broadly at me, probably because I’m finally looking at her rather than avoiding her like . . . well . . . a blubbering mess. “I think there’s a fine line.” She drags her finger on my forearm and says, “I think it’s good to have a man who’s confident but doesn’t think a woman is beneath him, like she’s lucky to breathe the same air as him.”
Chills pulse up my arm from her touch. “Uh-huh. Yup.”
I have no other response because my mouth is salivating.
Actually salivating.
In any other circumstances, I’d be turned fully toward her, my hand on her thigh, my thumb rubbing along her smooth skin, moving higher and higher. I’d lean into her, touch her hair, stare at her lips, and get lost in her eyes. I’d make a fucking move, tell her how goddamn beautiful she is, how she steals my breath when she enters the room.
But lucky for me, she’s completely and totally off limits. So off limits that if I were to even think about touching her, I might get my dick skated off by her father.
I remain stiff—in all areas—salivating over a touch of a finger.
“You remember that night we first met?” she asks.
Uh, like it was fucking two hours ago. That night plays in my head every time I shut my eyes for bed. I think about it. Dream about it. Wish about it. That night fucking haunts me.
“Uh, yeah. I believe so,” I say casually.
“You seemed different from how you are now. Like the confidence I was talking about.”
That’s because my dick didn’t have a muzzle on it like it does now.
“Oh, really?” I laugh nervously. “Well, you know, people change.”
“They do, but I think it’s something else. Are you scared of me?”
“Ha!” I bellow. “You? Scared of you?” I shake my head. “No, no, no. Nope. Not scared of you. Not even a little. Definitely not scared. Nope. No scaries over here.”
Now, am I scared of your father?
Yes.
My nipples have inverted just thinking about him seeing us like this side by side on my couch, and nothing is even happening. Well, besides my growing affection for this woman. Oh, did I say affection? I meant erection.
My growing erection.
“Hmm, but you’re so jumpy. Is there anything that I’m doing to make you so jumpy?”
She squeezes in closer, her breast rubbing up against my arm, the distinctive feel of her hard nipple right there on my bicep, poking my sensitive skin. The smell of her shampoo combined with the scent of my masculine soap has my head swirling with debauchery, and when her hand lands on my thigh with concern, I feel the telltale sign of my dick press against the fabric of my pants.
Alert. Alert.
Warning. Warning.
Bad thoughts are occurring.
Sexual thoughts.
Aching urges are taking over.
Hands are ready to cup breasts.
The mouth is ready to suckle.
The dick is ready to pulse between her legs . . .
Posey, you’re going to do something bad if you don’t remove yourself right this instant.
Out of self-preservation, I fly off the couch, letting her fall into the spot I was just occupying as I shout, “Bologna.”
“Huh?” she asks, sitting back.
“B-bologna.” I keep my hands placed in front of my aching cock to block her view of my obvious bulge. “Did you, uh, did you get me bologna? At the store. Did you secure the bologna?”
“Um, yes,” she says with a quizzical tone. “The bologna has been secured.”
“Are you sure? Because it’s important. The bologna is important, Wylie.”
Her brow pinches together. “Yes, I’m sure. The bologna has been purchased and properly placed in the fridge.” She studies me for a moment. “Is everything okay, Levi?”
No.