I lean my head back under the stream, letting the water streak down my body, and then I take matters into my own hand. She’s here with me. Naked, wet, aroused. Wrapped around me.
I groan, grip myself harder. I see her lips, red and inviting. Lips I’ve longed for since the day I met her. I want to kiss, taste, and right now, I want to fuck those lips. I want to slide my aching cock in that lush mouth and watch her take me deep, suck me hard.
Lust jolts through my body as I let the fantasy play out. As I watch my cock thrust deeper into that perfect mouth, as I wind my hand into her wet hair, her lips are so tight around me.
I jerk harder, tug faster, picturing what it would feel like to finally have her on her knees.
But, then I blink.
Shove the image away.
That’s not how I want Joy right now. I know what my own orgasm feels like. Fantastic. I’ve been there, done that, don’t need to picture it.
Instead, I want to do filthy things to her. Want to find her naked on my bed, wearing nothing but a white shirt I’d discarded earlier, unbuttoned and spread open, revealing those beautiful tits, rosy nipples, and a soft belly.
Rough, raw noises rumble up my throat as I shuttle my fist harder, faster. Rocking into my hand, I imagine crawling down her body, licking a path between her tits, kissing to the paradise between her thighs. I picture flicking the tip of my tongue over her for the first time.
Primal desire flares inside me, and I grunt as I imagine tasting her where she’s wet and hot and needy. She arches her hips. Begging. Pleading. Curling her hands around my head.
I heed her call. Oh dear God, do I ever fucking heed it.
I bury my face between those thighs, and then pleasure yanks me under, rockets through me as I come hard. A shudder racks my entire body, and I press my forehead to the glass door. “Fuck,” I mutter as water pelts my back.
I groan loudly, a rough and hungry sound.
An empty one, too. That felt absolutely great and utterly annoying. Because it’s not real. It’s not happening. And I’m going to have to fight like hell to pretend I don’t want to do unholy things to her body when I see her again.
And damn, do I want to see her again.
I adjust the temperature in the shower, going lukewarm then cooler, forcing myself to stand under the stream as it chills.
Ten minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and still wanting her. Oh yeah, turns out a shower wank doesn’t evict Joy from my brain. Nor does an ice cube–temperature shower, either.
From the kitchen counter, I grab the chocolate tart she gave me last night and devour it.
I’m still hungry.
But before I root around for something else to gnaw my way through in mere seconds, I snap a photo of the paper the tart was wrapped in. There’s one crumb left. She’ll like this. I send her the shot.
Griffin: There’s nothing quite like a ten-mile training run, followed by a chocolate tart. By the way, thanks for dessert for breakfast. It was delicious, and I thought of you.
I look at the sent message. Well, it’s not totally obvious I have it bad for her. It was delicious, and I thought of you, I mouth to myself. Could I be any more blatant? I shake my head and sigh heavily. I set down the phone.
Maybe I ought to try not thinking about her for a full minute. I grab my phone and click open a word game. This one helps keep my Spanish in shape as I have to steer letters, Tetris style, into words. But as I form sobra, my phone buzzes. I exit the game so quickly that I leave the a free-falling. So much for playing it cool, as the letter crashes to a cruel death.
Joy: My, my. Aren’t you quite the warrior? I’m still lounging in my jammies, drinking coffee and eating bonbons.
Griffin: What kind of jammies?
Look, I can’t help myself. When a gorgeous woman says she’s in PJs, I’m required, on account of being male, to ask what she has on. Especially since she was naked in my shower mere minutes ago.
Joy: A corset, Griffin. I sleep in a corset. It’s black lace. I wear stocking and garters, too. As well as stilettos.
I crack up. She’s onto me.
Griffin: Ah, that sounds quite comfy. I find it quite pleasant, myself, to sleep in a tailored suit.
Two can play at this game after all.
Joy: You don’t say? I might need a picture of that.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me of the other important matter at hand. Sustenance. I open the fridge. A jar of pickles stares forlornly at me. I scratch my jaw, wondering why I even have pickles. I don’t remember buying them. I take a photo of the pickles and send it to Joy. But before I can add a note to explain why I’m sending the picture, a text from her lands on my screen.
Joy: Why, I thought you’d never ask me to go pickle shopping with you. I accept. :)
Griffin: I’m starving. I’m off to get some breakfast. Petit déjeuner to you. I’d invite you to join me, and teach you scintillating phrases about eggs and coffee and bread, but you’d need to get out of your jammies rather quickly, since ten-plus miles of running has made me rather ravenous.
So have thoughts of you coming on my lips.
Joy:
