I’ve never been a fan of going it alone, but the guilt is less confronting this way. I’m only stealing time from my sleep when I self-pleasure, and I’m not issuing any false promises of something more.
I can’t do more. That requires time and commitment, as well as three-course meals that take hours to prepare. I don’t have that much time—though it wasn’t an issue this evening.
The healthy thud of my clit steals my focus from recalling how many hours Grayson and I spent cooking, cleaning, and talking today. It could be bursting with electricity recalling how many times I busted Grayson watching me under hooded eyes, and how his shower lasted far longer than mine. Still, I pretend this kind of euphoric buzz is perfectly normal for me.
It isn’t. I’ve never been so tightly wound up.
As a bolt of electricity rockets through me, my nipples brush against the oversized shirt I’m wearing as a nightie. They’re hard and stiff, aching with as much desire as my pussy.
I can’t endure much more. My longing to come surpasses my need to breathe, but there’s only one way I’ll achieve the seemingly impossible.
I need to think about Grayson.
Even before hormones flooded my body, I only needed to imagine his face to climax. His hold over me should have taken a back seat when I told him the real reason I took the rap for Moses’s murder, but it didn’t wane in the slightest.
I haven’t come in over thirteen years without Grayson’s face helming my campaign, and tonight won’t buck the trend.
The fabric of my shirt slides higher when I sweep open my thighs and then spread my labia to expose the dampness of my vagina to the sticky humidity in the air.
“Oh god.”
I moan when a quick flick of my thumb over my clit teeters me close to the edge. As I toy with my clit, I slide two fingers inside myself. I don’t insert them all the way, but I act as though they don’t belong to me. I picture Grayson’s icy-blue eyes, cut jaw, and brain-numbing face hovering above me as his hand works me into a frenzy. I imagine the weight of his body pressing against mine, and the uniqueness of our combined scents when his desire to taste me becomes too much.
Moaning, I work my fingers in and out, over and over again.
I should feel embarrassed that I’m masturbating over a man who is way out of my league, horrified, but I am too far gone in the devastating spiral of ecstasy to stop now.
The thought of Grayson walking in and seeing me pleasing myself has my fingers moving faster, crudely. I finger-fuck myself for several long minutes until stars blister before my eyes and my muscles coil tight.
I can smell his sweat-slicked skin in the air, taste its saltiness on my tongue. It drives me wild with desire and has me coming undone in a shamefully quick timeframe.
My thighs shake as the wetness of my arousal coats my palm. I move my hips in rhythm with my thrusting fingers as an effortless smirk pushes me over the edge.
As the hunger for skin-on-skin friction ignites inside me, I twist and moan. Then I shake through a brutal orgasm.
Grayson’s name leaves my throat in a mangled roar as floating lights dance in front of my eyes.
A groan cuts short the brilliance of my long and draining climax.
While shooting my eyes to the door, I yank my hand out from beneath the sheets like they’re not hiding the immorally corrupt activity I just undertook. The door is ajar, but there’s no shadow behind it, no witnesses to my farce, though the faintest glimpse of white laces under the hallway table announces that wasn’t the case only seconds ago.
Grayson’s shoes are once again under the hallway table, which sits mere inches from my once again open bedroom door.
Shit.
19
GRAYSON
As I pace the living room, the silence is only broken by the hum of the overworked refrigerator and the soft, cadenced whistles of Macy’s breaths from behind her bedroom door. I should feel victorious. Only an hour ago, I was the better man. Despite what I am confident were flirtatious insinuations firing from Macy, I didn’t cross any lines. I said goodnight, ensured she knew the purpose of the oil a DoorDash driver delivered earlier today, and then left her to navigate toward a peaceful slumber without interference.
However, I stomped over the truce I drew in the sand when I lowered the handle of Macy’s bedroom door instead of leaving it shut, as I found it.
With my hands shoved in my running shorts and my jaw tight, I pace the living room. I keep replaying the moment I saw the bottle of massage oil on Macy’s nightstand, and how it confirmed my suspicion that Macy wasn’t asleep this time when I heard her moan. The cap of the oil was twisted off, and the air smelled of lavender and something sweeter.
I know what that means. I know what she was doing and who she was thinking about while doing it. Hell, I heard my nameleave her lips. The erotic noise was muffled by the ruffling of the sheets barely concealing the stimulating visual playing out before my eyes, but it couldn’t be mistaken.
I try to shake off how her moan of my name while conscious makes me feel. I’m not that guy. I wouldneverexploit a vulnerable woman, especially Macy. She’s my friend and coworker and, if I were honest, the only person who’s made me feel alive in years. Yet, I can’t disregard how my body responds to her and how my heart races when she’s nearby. I also can’t stop thinking about the sound of her moans.
