She might pass out,a concerned voice says.
I grit my teeth. I’m not going to care if she passes out. And I’m not going to do anything about it if she does. God damn it. I want her to suffer.
An hour later, I’m standing in front of the mansion’s main entrance. She reaches me about ten minutes later, arms flailing like a broken marionette’s, then folds over, a hand on her left side. Sweat runs down her body in rivulets, and her face is so red, it looks like an overripe tomato.
Part of me says I should give her a moment to recover. And maybe something to drink. Since she doesn’t have a towel, I should bring one out.
But I force myself to stand there, my hands clenched and legs rooted to the spot, so I don’t do anything stupid to ruin what I’m trying to achieve. After all, I wouldn’t have to do this if she wasn’t so stubborn. Just what does she think she can gain by insisting on working at GrantEm?
“I’m going to grab a shower and go to the office. I suggest you do the same.”
She can’t even straighten herself long enough to look at me. “You want me—to shower—here?” she manages between wheezing breaths.
An image of her nude pops into my head—covered in slippery suds in my shower as water sprays the slopes of her lush tits, down her belly and into the V of her thighs…
Now my blood is hot for reasons that have nothing to do with the run.Fuck.
“You want me to provide you with a shower?” I scoff more harshly than necessary to hide my physical reaction. Then I slam the door in her face and go straight to my bathroom. My dick’s so swollen, it’s painful to walk up the steps.
I hope she didn’t notice, because it’ll be annoying as hell if she realizes she has any sort of power over me, even if it’s something as dumb as causing me an unwilling erection. She’ll find a way to screw with me.
I rip off my clothes and hop into the gigantic glass stall. Five showerheads pummel me with water while I wash myself more roughly than necessary. My dick doesn’t care about my mood.
Down, motherfucker.
It bobs instead, its head touching my belly. Son of a bitch. I throb, and I have to do something about this before going to the office. I refuse to walk around with a hard-on, especially around Aspen.
Dammit.I grip my penis and pump it, closing my eyes and thinking about something filthy to speed up the process. Some porn I saw a while ago with the girl sucking a guy off and getting sprayed in the face. It was hot.
But it doesn’t work.
I think of Yvette—before she dyed her hair. She wasn’t so bad. Our time was satisfying, like a champagne brunch at Nieve is satisfying.
Still not happening. It’s like my dick is saying,You can do better, man.
Shit. Why can’t I just ejaculate? I have work to do!
An image of Aspen during that first time arises. The shyness in her voice, the unschooled but eager stroke of her hands. The desperate way she clung to me as I pushed her higher and higher. Her sharp cries. All the ways my body burned for her.
No, no, no.I try to shake off the memory.That was all fake.I’ve done everything in my power to scrub it from my thoughts. I even transferred so I could be away from the places we went together.
But it’s too late. My whole body tightens, all the way to my scalp. My cum shoots out hard and hits the wall, leaving white streaks. I glare at it, breathing roughly.Traitor. Fucking traitor dick! This is unacceptable.
The endorphins from the run vanish. All I’m left with is fury and self-recrimination. The only sliver of comfort is that Aspen’s never going to know what just happened.
Chapter Thirty-One
Aspen
I rush through a shower. I don’t have time to dry my hair, so I just squeeze out the water and towel it semi-dry, then twist it up into a knot. It feels sort of gross, but I have no choice. I put on a white button-down shirt, black slacks and the same boring black shoes I wore yesterday and hurry out of my apartment.
My muscles protest. My side still burns, and I swear, I’m never going to be the same if Grant continues to make me run. The problem is I don’t know how I’m going to get out of it. The only exception he said was if I have other responsibilities…like family or a kid.
He sure knows how to twist the knife, I think as the familiar pain lingers in my chest. It’s an old pain, and it no longer has the sharp edge it used to. But that doesn’t mean the wound doesn’t hurt. Or that it hasn’t left a scar.
The family that used to include my grandmother is now down to just me and Grandpa. And I don’t know how long I’m going to have him before there’s nothing but me left.
I give myself a mental shake as I climb into my car. Grant doesn’t care about that sort of thing. He’s a cold, calculating asshole who only cares about himself. I’ve given some thought as to why he’s acting like I’m the one who backstabbed him, but once I consider his ego, the explanation is simple: he’s angry he didn’t get to end the farce the way he wanted. I’m sure my disappearing like that wasn’t part of his script. He was dying to see me on the day Heath and Will streaked. Grant probably wanted to see my reaction for himself and gloat over his win.
