Fuck me.
I brace myself against a shelf, close my eyes, and slowly exhale. I need to hurry the hell up.
I don’t move.
My mind wanders into a dirty place. Jordan. Me. Her body beneath mine. Remembering when those sounds were only for me. When I was the one making her feel good, making her come so hard my name would tumble from her lips in a breathy moan.
My hands move before I can stop them, instinct taking over. I tug my boxer briefs down, already irritated with myself as I wrap my hand around my cock, my thumb brushing through the precum at the tip.
A flicker of guilt hits as I start to pump my fist, but it fades just as quickly when that familiar rush settles in—the same euphoric feeling I get when I’m chasing any kind of high. This won’t take long. Not when it’s been weeks since I’ve been with anyone.
I close my eyes, sinking deeper into the fantasy, every sense sharpening. The imagery. The sounds. The memory of Jordan’s warm skin against mine. The tension builds fast, heat spreading through my body, pushing me closer to the edge.
Her soft gasps fill the air again, and that’s all it takes. The release hits me hard, pleasure surging through me in sharp pulses as I slow my movements and let it take over completely.
I shudder, take a deep, labored breath, and open my eyes.
Thank fuck for the box of tissues on the shelf.
I clean myself up and change quickly into joggers and a T-shirt.
I step out of the closet just as the water shuts off and make my way to the living room so I don’t miss any more of the game.
I sink into the couch, beer in hand, flipping on the TV. I open my messages. Jensen texted me multiple times during my… situation.
Jensen
Guess I won’t, but knowing you—I’ll always assume the worst.
Did you see that pass? Please tell me you saw that pass.
I’m taking you ignoring my messages as you and Jordan being “busy.” Just an fyi.
I chuckle to myself and toss my phone aside, more than happy to let Jensen think I’m getting laid.
A few minutes later, I hear Jordan padding down the hall. I keep my attention on the TV.
Act natural.
Just a guy on his couch watching football. No harm, no foul.
Her voice echoes into the room. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were home.”
I turn, craning my neck.
Christ.
She’s in a short black silky robe, hair knotted at the top of her head, looking wildly refreshed.
A smirk tugs at my mouth, but I fight it.
She freezes when she sees me and her eyes go wide. “How long have you been here?”
I shrug. “Just a few minutes,” I lie casually, lifting the bottle to my lips.
“But you’re not in your suit.”
Shit.
