Lessons in sex. With Molly, the too-young-for-me, virgin librarian.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My pulse races
I nearly panic. In what world am I going to be able to maintain this? How in the ever-loving fuck am I going to makesure she doesn't get hurt? Separating sex and feelings are hard for seasoned pros. For Molly?
I groan, briefly dropping my forehead to my steering wheel at a stop sign. "Fuck. Fucking fuck."
I did this to myself. I tortured myself into this mess, and she's going to be the one who pays for my mistake. What a fucking asshole. I'm the one who's supposed to know better. And I know what I have to do.
I have to--
I can't even finish the thought before a hot rush ofnotears through me. And I know.
There's no undoing it. There's no going back, no pretending I don't know what it feels like to hold her. To kiss her. To have the light of her hungry adoration shined on me. All I can do is mitigate. That, and uphold my promise to her. No big deal.
I am so fucked.
My cock is painfully hard, the zipper of my jeans digging into the flesh. I can't help it. Everything smells like her. She's all over me. And while getting rid of her is the last thing I want to do, I have to wash her soap off of me or I'm going to lose my fucking mind.
Once in my driveway, I storm out of my car, blowing into my house like a hot wind, slamming the door behind me so hard, the panes rattle. Piece by piece, I undress on my way to the shower, leaving a trail of boots and socks and jeans and the rest. I leave it ice cold, the colder the better. I want it so cold it hurts, punishes me for the mother of all mistakes. Palm to the tile, I hang my head, the icy water like shards of glass clipping down my back. Her soap, her shampoo, amplified under the water. I snatch the bar of soap off its shelf and scrub until the lather is thick and foamy and rolling down my body in rivers. The second my hand brushes my hot, aching cock, my body jolts like I was shocked. A moan slips out of me as I pump into my fist.
This, at least, is a problem I can solve.
The grip on my leash slips as the grip on my cock tightens. Every moment I've spent with her blasts through my brain. I let myself indulge in each detail, every little whimper and gasp, slide into the heat of it. Imagine her flushed and naked and stretched out in my bed. Imagine making her come with my hands, my tongue, my cock. I can hear the sound of my name on her lips.
And I let go of the leash, uncertain I'll ever get it back on.
My hips jerk, palm braced on the tile. I mutter curses into the freezing shower spray. But beneath my desire is something worse.
Hope.
I can have her. She could be mine.
But it might ruin me. Because when I've done what I promised, I have to walk away. And I don't know if I'll ever be the same.
I don't fucking care.
The orgasm tears out of me, sharp and furious, wringing my body like it's been coiled for years. And I hear her name groaned from my lips, even though I swore I wouldn't.
It's violent, overwhelming, but the worst part is that when it's through and my body is spent, there's no relief. I still ache. I still want. I still imagine her in my bed, not in my head.
That leash wasn't just to protect her.
It was to protect me.
And I just proved to myself how fragile my hold is.
CHAPTER 18
JUICY
GREY
Thus began two of the longer weeks of my life.
