Page 77 of Meant for Mayhem

Reality check.

But the second I closed my eyes, I saw her again—those heavy-lidded eyes in the car, her thigh pressed into my hand, the soft curve of her mouth when she laughed at my stupid tomato rant. The way she’d kissed Leena’s forehead like my little girl was already hers.

I was so screwed.

I crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, dragging a hand down my face while my heart hammered against my ribs. Shannon was down the hall. The penthouse wasn’t big enough for secrets like this. If I made a single sound…

I told myself I’d palm myself over the fabric. Get it under control. But my hand was already shoving the waistband down before I could talk myself out of it. My cock sprang free, heavy and aching, the head already slick. I wrapped my fist around it and gave one slow stroke, biting back a groan.

Quiet.

You have to be quiet.

The first real tug pulled a sharp breath through my teeth.

I pictured her on the couch, hood up, blanket over her legs, that wedding ring still on her finger. I imagined pushing her hoodie up. Finding out exactly how warm and soft she was underneath all those layers.

Another stroke. Harder. My hips jerked up into my fist.

Now the image changed to me pushing aside the blanket to find out if the adrenaline from the night had the same effect on her.

I kept the rhythm slow at first, trying to stay silent, but my mind wouldn’t let me. I imagined her straddling me right here on this bed, hair down, moaning while she sank onto me. On her knees in the kitchen, looking up at me with those dark eyes while she took me deep in her mouth. Laughing, arguing, living with me like she belonged here. Like this was real.

A low, broken sound escaped me before I could catch it.

I froze, listening.

The penthouse was so quiet, she had to hear my bed creaking faintly with every thrust into my hand. Had to hear the wet sound of my fist moving faster now.

But I couldn’t stop.

I tightened my grip, imagining it was her hand. Her mouth. Her tight, wet pussy.

My free hand fisted the sheets as my strokes turned punishing. The pressure built fast, coiling at the base of my spine.

“Fuck, Shannon,” I whispered, but it still felt dangerous. Like saying her name out loud might summon her to the door.

My balls drew up, my abs clenched, and I came hard, clamping my mouth shut to keep from groaning loud enough for the whole building to hear. Thick ropes of cum spilled over my fist, pulse after pulse, while her name echoed in my head.

When it finally stopped, I sat there panting, sticky, and still half-hard because my brain wouldn’t let go of her.

I cleaned up with the tissues on my nightstand, ears straining for any sound from the hallway.

Nothing.

Maybe she’d gone to bed.

Maybe she was pretending she hadn’t heard anything.

I pulled my sweats back up and flopped onto my back. The post-game high, the pizza, the easy banter, the reading—it had all felt so good.

And then I’d jerked off like a teenager thinking about my wife who wasn’t mine, loud enough that she probably knew exactly what I’d done.

Guilt twisted in my chest, but it wasn’t stronger than the want.

Tonight, it was harder to ignore the part of me that wanted her to be mine for real. That I’d wanted her even before I got us into this mess.

Not just on paper.