I imagine his hands replacing mine. Not gentle. Not patient. Shoving me hard against the shower wall, the cold porcelain biting into my back as his hips pin me there. His mouth, relentless, trailing down my throat. Nipping, sucking, leaving marks that screammine,before blazing a path over my collarbone, then my breasts, his tongue swirling around anipple until I’m gasping and writhing and so close to the edge I could scream.
“Fuck, yes, yes,” I moan, my fingers working faster, matching the rhythm I crave from him. “Fuck me Marco.”
Then he’s on his knees, water sluicing over the hard lines of his shoulders as his hands spread my thighs wide. His eyes lock on mine, dark and hungry, before his mouth finds me, hot, wet,devouring. His tongue lashing my clit in rough, perfect circles, then plunging deep inside me, fucking me with it while his thumb presses just right.
I can almost hear his growl vibrating against my skin: “You taste like heaven, Jess. Fucking perfect.”
I cum the first time with a cry, my pussy clenching around my own fingers, the force of it buckling my knees. But he doesn’t stop. In my fantasy, he rises, his cock, so thick, so hard, presses against my entrance.
“Look at me,” he orders, and I obey, drowning in those eyes.
Then he slams into me, filling me so completely I sob his name. His hips piston, relentless, each thrust dragging me higher. My fingers mimic his own motions, frantically abusing my pussy.
“That’s it, take it all. My good girl.”
A second orgasm shatters me, then a third when I imagine his teeth at my ear, his voice raw and wrecked: “Cum for me again. I want to feel you break.”
And I do. I break. Wave after wave tear through me, my body convulsing, my cries echoing off the tiles.
I’m staggering and gasping and maybe crying a little but that’s fine because I’m in the shower so no one can tell.
Masturbating to your boss? Maybe it’s fucked up. But right now, with my pulse still thundering and my skin still singing, I don’t give a damn.
I let the tremors subside, my breath ragged but finally steady. Then I reach for the faucet, cutting the water. Silence floods in, heavy and real. I wrap the towel around myself, the coarse fabric a sudden anchor to the world outside my steam-clouded dream.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about tomorrow. About how I have to show up at his house and act normal.
Act like I don’t know exactly how he tastes.
My phone buzzes.
Marco.
I’m sorry.
I stare at those two words forever.
Sorry for what? For kissing me? For stopping? For making me want him so badly I can barely function?
Me too,I type back.
The truth is I’m not sorry about the kiss. I’m sorry we have to pretend it didn’t happen. Sorry we can’t have what we both clearly want.
Sorry that wanting him feels like betrayal.
His response is immediate:Tomorrow you’ll still be there?
Tomorrow,I confirm.
Because what else can I do? Quit? Run? Admit that I’m in way over my head and falling for a man I can never actually have?
No.
I’m going to show up. Do my job. Take care of Ben. Keep the boundaries intact.
Even if every cell in my body is screaming to finish whatwe started.
Even if I have to masturbate to his imaginary cock and scream his name when I’m alone in the shower for the rest of my life.
