I’m supposed to be helping him analyze.
Sitting alone in that dark room, reclined in the couch, his eyes boring into mine even in the dim light from the screen. . .
Cold shower it is. I shimmy out of my jeans and grab a towel from my suitcase, then tiptoe across the room to the bathroom door, wearing nothing but my sheer, lace bra and thong. My head is still several rooms away, lost in a fantasy, as I fling the bathroom door open.
Only to freeze in shock, halfway across the threshold. My mouth falls open.
Because there stands Max, leaning against the shower, naked all the way from his gleaming pecs, down his ripped, washboard abs, to—well, way past his waist. His eyes are half-shut, his lips parted to reveal gritted teeth, as his thick, strong hand works his weeping cock.
The second the door hits the wall, his eyes fly open, and he releases himself.
Which just gives me a complete eye full of his rock hard cock. His huge rock hard cock, dark and practically pulsing with need.
My brain completely switches off. I have no comeback for this. No witty quip. I just gape at him, at his lean, muscular body and the kind of erection that makes me want to fall to my knees and wrap my lips around his hard shaft. Except, I’m not even sure he would fit in my mouth, not all the way, anyway. I’d definitely be interested in finding out.
Max recovers first, if you can call it recovering. He whips his jeans up his hips and turns away from me, though I can still tell how difficult it is to stuff himself back into those rather tight pants when he’s that close to finishing.
Oh my God.
“I . . . I’m so—I’m sorry,” I manage to stammer, finally recovering some small portion of my brain power. “I’ll. . .”
I don’t bother to try and finish the sentence. I do the only thing left that I can think of—I flee the bathroom as fast as I can, slamming the door hard behind me.
Oh shit.
Fourteen
Max
F uck .
That was possibly the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Okay, also the most problematic. What if she files a sexual harassment lawsuit, you dumbass , some sarcastic part of my brain comments.
But mostly I can’t stop picturing her eyes locked on my hard dick, or grazing over my body with appreciation. She couldn’t hide it. She didn’t even bother to try. She was just straight-up staring at me with lust written all over that gorgeous face. God, why the fuck didn’t I just take her right there?
I’ve been sitting in my room for an hour regretting not making a move on her in the moment before her smart side caught up to her lust. It’s making me hard all over again picturing her perky, round tits in that leave-nothing-to-the-imagination, skimpy bra, to fantasize taking her hot little mouth with mine, kissing her senseless, tearing that tiny thong off her body and pressing her shoulders against the tile wall as I plunged into her.
But I lost the window of opportunity. Neither of us made a move, and she finally pulled it together enough to apologize and race out of the bathroom. She chose sense over passion, and I need to respect that.
There’s only one way to settle this now. Go down that weird windy staircase, make your way through this mushroom maze of a house, find Chloe, and suggest we finish going through the VHS tapes like nothing ever happened.
She’s probably wanting to pretend the same thing, anyway, judging by the expression on her face when she bolted.
Then again.
Maybe she doesn't want to ignore it. Maybe she wants the same thing I do.
That thought gives me the energy to stand, leave my room, shut the door behind me. At her closed bedroom door, I can't resist pressing my ear to the wood for a moment, listening for any sounds of life within. But I haven't heard a peep from this quarter since she fled downstairs an hour ago.
I take the steps two at a time, because they're an odd shape. Too short for one step, almost too long for two. At the bottom, I take another deep breath. It'll
Sitting alone in that dark room, reclined in the couch, his eyes boring into mine even in the dim light from the screen. . .
Cold shower it is. I shimmy out of my jeans and grab a towel from my suitcase, then tiptoe across the room to the bathroom door, wearing nothing but my sheer, lace bra and thong. My head is still several rooms away, lost in a fantasy, as I fling the bathroom door open.
Only to freeze in shock, halfway across the threshold. My mouth falls open.
Because there stands Max, leaning against the shower, naked all the way from his gleaming pecs, down his ripped, washboard abs, to—well, way past his waist. His eyes are half-shut, his lips parted to reveal gritted teeth, as his thick, strong hand works his weeping cock.
The second the door hits the wall, his eyes fly open, and he releases himself.
Which just gives me a complete eye full of his rock hard cock. His huge rock hard cock, dark and practically pulsing with need.
My brain completely switches off. I have no comeback for this. No witty quip. I just gape at him, at his lean, muscular body and the kind of erection that makes me want to fall to my knees and wrap my lips around his hard shaft. Except, I’m not even sure he would fit in my mouth, not all the way, anyway. I’d definitely be interested in finding out.
Max recovers first, if you can call it recovering. He whips his jeans up his hips and turns away from me, though I can still tell how difficult it is to stuff himself back into those rather tight pants when he’s that close to finishing.
Oh my God.
“I . . . I’m so—I’m sorry,” I manage to stammer, finally recovering some small portion of my brain power. “I’ll. . .”
I don’t bother to try and finish the sentence. I do the only thing left that I can think of—I flee the bathroom as fast as I can, slamming the door hard behind me.
Oh shit.
Fourteen
Max
F uck .
That was possibly the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Okay, also the most problematic. What if she files a sexual harassment lawsuit, you dumbass , some sarcastic part of my brain comments.
But mostly I can’t stop picturing her eyes locked on my hard dick, or grazing over my body with appreciation. She couldn’t hide it. She didn’t even bother to try. She was just straight-up staring at me with lust written all over that gorgeous face. God, why the fuck didn’t I just take her right there?
I’ve been sitting in my room for an hour regretting not making a move on her in the moment before her smart side caught up to her lust. It’s making me hard all over again picturing her perky, round tits in that leave-nothing-to-the-imagination, skimpy bra, to fantasize taking her hot little mouth with mine, kissing her senseless, tearing that tiny thong off her body and pressing her shoulders against the tile wall as I plunged into her.
But I lost the window of opportunity. Neither of us made a move, and she finally pulled it together enough to apologize and race out of the bathroom. She chose sense over passion, and I need to respect that.
There’s only one way to settle this now. Go down that weird windy staircase, make your way through this mushroom maze of a house, find Chloe, and suggest we finish going through the VHS tapes like nothing ever happened.
She’s probably wanting to pretend the same thing, anyway, judging by the expression on her face when she bolted.
Then again.
Maybe she doesn't want to ignore it. Maybe she wants the same thing I do.
That thought gives me the energy to stand, leave my room, shut the door behind me. At her closed bedroom door, I can't resist pressing my ear to the wood for a moment, listening for any sounds of life within. But I haven't heard a peep from this quarter since she fled downstairs an hour ago.
I take the steps two at a time, because they're an odd shape. Too short for one step, almost too long for two. At the bottom, I take another deep breath. It'll
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