Page 16 of Not Safe for Work
Tried, and failed.
“Oh man, really?”
“Sure. It’s one of the things that drives me crazy, after all.”
“What’s one of the things?”
Men,she thought. He likes men, too. Then she flushed even hotter—and not just at the thought of them together. It was at the the thought of Hartford specifically, and of those beautiful eyes darkening with desire. Or those hands, god, those hands . . . How many times had she pretended that she didn’t want to see those hands running over something aside from a spreadsheet? And now here she was, thinking of him touching gorgeous Abel . . . And all while he did his best to make her sudden shock of feelings worse.
“Seeing someone come undone. Watching them unravel at the seams—and with him there’d be a lot of seams to unravel. I imagine it took him an age to finally slip a hand inside his neatly pressed slacks.”
“That sounds right to me. Maybe an hour before he could bring himself to do it.”
“You think only an hour? I think that’s being generous. I think at least an entire evening. An entire evening sat studying every curve and line of your body . . . and every line of mine.”
“Oh god. I can’t believe that sounds right,” she said, one hand coming up to cover her eyes.
But Abel stopped her before she could. He drew that hand back down, his own voice now as hushed with arousal as hers. “And yet it does,” he said. “I bet you can see it now, can’t you? Him hunched over his desk, face flushed red, breathless and desperate and just furiously masturbating.”
“In my head, he doesn’t do it furiously,” she answered, before she could stop herself. Before she could pretend that she had never fantasized about Hartford.
Until this talk, she had sort of blocked the idea out—he was so cruel, sometimes. So cold and awful. To want him in any way was obscene.
Or at least, it had been until right now.
Now, it was threatening to swamp her.
“No, no you’re right. He probably does it rigidly, meanly,” Abel said.
And suddenly she couldn’t remember why she had ever denied it. Why she was fighting it, when it felt so sweet to say in a hot whisper? “Almost like he’s trying not to feel any pleasure at all.”
“Hand really tight on his cock.”
“Almost painful.”
“Kind of short, tense strokes.”
“Like this?”
He asked the question quite calmly, as if it were nothing at all. Then she saw what he was doing. She saw his hand on his cock. After that, it didn’t seem to matter what she said or did.
“Oh yeah. Just like that,” she groaned, her own hand already sliding between her legs.
“And then when he sees your nipples sticking through your shirt . . . when he hears your first soft moan, that sexy soft moan you did when I started to touch you . . . maybe he speeds up just a little, just enough.”
“That sounds good. That sounds right.”
“He watches you rock against my hand, and his control starts to splinter.”
“Do you think it would? I can’t imagine it would.”
The truth was: she could imagine. She was doing it right now. She was thinking of her aloof nightmare of a boss—while masturbating.
While masturbating with her lover.
It was insane. But it was also intoxicating. It was freeing, the same way the removal of her shoes had been.
“How could it not, when you look so gorgeous as you come? He must have seen that flush all over your cheeks, and your throat. Heard you make that filthy, guttural noise as you creamed all over my face . . . Do you think he imagined himself in my place?” he asked, and she hesitated a little before answering.
