Page 29 of Painted Truths

Pulling out of Andi's drenched mouth, I tuck my still hard dick back into my boxers and zip my suit pants up before walking to my office door in quick strides. The floor space is dark and seemingly empty.

I venture further into the office and call out, but there's no sound.

Not wasting any time dwelling on my wishful thinking, I turn back, knowing I need to kick Andi out before she wants to have the favour reciprocated, which is something, like kissing, I just don't do.

Finding myself on my office threshold, I see Andi has made no move to cover herself or re-dress, an issue I remedy quickly and efficiently.

"Get dressed." My voice is loud, harsh, and brooks no argument.

Her face falls, her mouth pulling itself into the most unbecoming pout as she jerks herself to a sitting position.

"Quickly, Andrea. I have places to be."

She winces visibly upon hearing the inflexion I purposely place on her name, confirming her suspicions that playtime is over. But to her credit, she dresses swiftly and quietly before walking to the doorway and turning to face me.

"Call me anytime, Rico."

"It's Mr DeMarco, Andrea. Goodnight."

Without so much as glancing in her general direction, I march toward my restroom and close the door behind me, clicking the lock loudly on the off chance my ex-fuck buddy didn't get the message before now.

I won't be dipping my wick in that office ink anymore. Judging by the hopeful look in Andrea's eyes, it seems she's gotten attached, when I've been forthright from the first that I am not interested in anything more than a quick release.

Divesting my three-piece, slightly rumpled suit, I turn my rainwater shower to a cool temperature and duck underneath, allowing the water to sluice along my body, washing away both the day from hell and the orgasm that has forced me into feeling.

Or at least that blaze of blonde hair I am 99% certain I saw as I came has me melancholy.

Two years. Two damn years, and I'm still mooning over a piece of tail. It's a fucking joke, but it's on me because the thought of Peaches still gets my dick harder than granite. Despite having just come, my cock stirs to life at her memory. But, unfortunately, it's not just her ass I'm hard thinking about. It's the entire cock teasing package.

Her big blue innocent eyes. Her hair that had looked and felt like spun gold. Her perfect smile. Her tinkling laughter. Her hesitant hands as they felt my body vibrating with barely restrained need.

My cock is fully hard again as precum drips from the slit freely. Grabbing the offending appendage in my right hand, I run my thumb through the slickness and grip it hard before jerking off viciously to the thought of Peaches. Not that she's mine to dream about, but my cock has yet to get the memo.

Picturing how it would feel to sink into her tightness from behind while grabbing her hair with one hand and slapping her peachy cheeks with the other is my go-to wank-bank material and never fails to get me off.

Slapping my left hand against the shower door, I come with a bellow and more intensity than I ever have with a woman since I laid eyes on her. Just the mere thought of her does this to me.

Fucking hell.

As I rinse off, I’m more than a little pissed at my lack of discipline. Once I’m done and dry, I set to the task of getting ready for my flight. The jet is booked to fly in a little over an hour, so I ring down to my driver and tell him to pull the car around.

My flight to the States is quiet, having opted for one male flight attendant, mainly because I've fucked the female ones, and I couldn't be bothered dealing with them tonight.

Instead of sleeping, as I should be, I shoot off an email to Tim Nash, my head of security at the London office, telling him that I need the surveillance footage on 26 from earlier tonight.

I can't stop the nagging feeling that someone was outside my office earlier, though I don't expect an answer as it's still the middle of the night back home. So, I'm guessing it will be tomorrow afternoon New York time before I hear a word.

There's a car ready and waiting when I land, and within minutes, we are on the way to my penthouse in Manhattan. Of course, it's still the middle of the night, but here in New York, it's a bustling concrete jungle at all times of the day and night.

My Upper East Side penthouse is a 12,500-foot space with monolithic windows taking up floors 46 and 47 in the building. It's currently painted in lights from the bustling city, so I grab a bottle of water from the well-stocked refrigerator, chugging it down in two gulps, before abandoning my luggage at the foot of the stairs and taking the steps two at a time.

Stripping out of my travel clothes, I fall face-first onto my super king bed in just my jocks and am asleep almost before my head meets the mattress.

It's still dark outside when I awake to someone beating my door down. I feel like I've just been asleep for ten minutes, if not less.

The door attendant of the building knows better than to let just anyone in, especially at this time of the day, so my sleep-addled brain can at least acknowledge it can only be one of three people.

It can't be Nate. He's stuck back in London, wading through his late father's estate.