My cock throbs just thinking about it.
I step into the shower and brace a hand against the tile, letting the hot water pound over my back. Then I reach down, wrap my fist around myself, and fuck my hand like it’s her mouth. Imagine her voice. Her whimper. That moan.
Christ.
Squeezing harder and stroking rougher, I chase the sound of her. My free hand drags through my hair, water pouring down my spine as I arch with every pull. I don’t even try to hold it back.
I want it fast. Sharp and blinding.
And when I come, groaning out a fucking username, I let it hit the wall and disappear down the drain.
Afterward, I let the hot water bite at the muscles across my back, the curve of my shoulders, the spot that pulled weird on the last callout.
Built like a tank, my crew says. Broad with the kind of core you only get from carrying civilians out of burning buildings or hauling hose.
Still, I look in the mirror some mornings and wonder if she'd actually like what she saw. Connie obviously didn’t. Not enough, anyway. But I’m not dwelling on her, not with someone else echoing in my head.
I towel off, run a hand through my damp hair, and reach for my phone on the bathroom counter. I should leave it, but my thumb hovers, and I hit record.
“You’re trouble, Red. You know that? It’s not even six a.m. and I’m still hearing your voice in the shower while I fuck my hand.” I pause, let the silence stretch. “If I don’t make it through this double, it’s your fault.”
Send.
Then I yank on a pair of sweats and head down the hall, pretending I didn’t just beat off to a girl I’ve never seen.
Hazel’s already judging me from the windowsill when I walk into the kitchen.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who humps blankets.”
She lets out her signature sound of a dying trumpet, perfected just for me.
“Yeah, yeah, good morning to you too, Satan.”
With a flick of her tail, she jumps down and turns expectantly toward her food bowl.
“Charming as ever.”
I scoop kibble into her bowl, and she takes exactly one sniff, then looks at me like I’ve ruined her life.
“Five kinds of expensive and still not good enough? You wanna start buying your own, be my guest.”
She doesn’t dignify that with a response, just gives me her ass disappearing off around the corner.
I’m halfway through dumping coffee grounds into my machine when my phone buzzes.
Mom.
I roll my eyes but smile, tucking the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I open the fridge.
“Morning, Ma.”
“Morning, sweetheart! You up?”
I glance down at my barely-contained morning wood, back again. “More or less.”
“You eat?”
“Not yet.”
