Page 42 of Miss Behaved
I tighten my grip on my cock and stroke faster, falling into the fantasy I’ve relived again and again the past decade, my dick remembering the imprint of her body and how right it felt to be inside her slickness.
I think of bending her over that pool ledge and reminding her body what it feels like for my cock to take her, water lapping between us as I drive faster, harder, knowing her pussy would quake against my length. I can almost hear the sounds I’d pull from her mouth as I’d land a flat palm against her perfect-peach ass, those lips screaming out for me to unleash more. Her darkened eyes fluttering at me over her shoulder as I wrap my hand into the base of her hair and pull her flush against me.
Gripping one hand on the sheets, I jerk my cock harder, giving into the fantasy of the woman I’ll never get over as pressure builds at the base of my spine.
“Monica.” Her name falls from my lips, and I imagine her voice in return.
Carson.
I’m on the brink of release when it comes again.
“Carson.” This time it’s followed by a knock.
My eyes fly open, and my dick slaps against my stomach as I let go of it.
Another knock at the door. “Carson?”
Shit, fuck, shit.
What am I doing? Jerking off to a woman who made it clear where I stand with her. Colleagues, a bit of fun, nothing more. And now she’s on the other side of my door? I tuck my raging erection into my pants and zip them up, trying to angle in a way that won’t give me away the second I open the door.
“Coming!” I yell.
Not in the way I want to be.
When I swing the door open, I’m careful to position my hips partway behind it, and it’s a good thing, because the sight of Monica standing before me makes my cock fight harder against the zipper. She’s changed since this morning, now in a short raspberry sundress that lands at the tops of her thighs. The slightest bend in her hips would probably show off the edge of her perfect ass. Her hair is down and wild around her face. She’s a wet dream standing in my doorway.
“What’s up, Mon?” I ask.
Did my voice go up an octave?Hopefully she didn’t notice.
“You look flushed,” she says, taking a step closer. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, must have been the heat from this morning. All good here.” I brush my hair off my forehead and can’t stop my eyes from darting all over the place. “How was breakfast?”
There, changing the subject. Smooth. Be cool.
Monica crosses one ankle over the other, and it presses her smooth thighs together. “It was good. A little too much vodka before ten a.m. But pancakes helped.”
“Good. Good,” I say.
She shifts nervously. One hand comes up to her hair and starts twirling a strand.
“Something’s on your mind,” I say, looking down at her finger drawing circles with her hair.
She glances down and then wraps her hands around her stomach like that will stop her constant fidgeting. But the position of her arms pushes up her tits, and I hope she doesn’t hear that growl that escapes my chest.
“Can I come in?” She looks past my shoulder.
This is a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.
At least with the threshold between us I’m able to maintain some sense that I’m in control of my body. But her in my room, smelling like fresh lemons and glowing like fucking sunshine—damn it.
So what do I do? Open the fucking door wider, of course.
Her eyes trace my bed, and I hope she doesn’t notice the rumple in the covers from what I was doing before she got here. If she does, she doesn’t say anything.
Monica seats herself on the edge of the bed and drapes one leg over the other. The hem of her sundress moves up her thigh, and my hands ache to slip beneath it. I look back to her face and realize her eyes are fixed on the bulge in my pants. Her breath hitches, and I know there’s no hiding it now.
