When I left for New York City, it was hard as hell. It hurt. The pain reminded me of a sliver under my fingernail that I couldn’t pull out, knowing it would hurt too damn much. I knew if I didn’t mess with it, it really wasn’t that unbearable. But I learned that, when it was left there too long, an infection would begin, and that gnawing pain would be far worse than Dad going at it with a pin and tweezers. Then, well, then it would heal and you forgot about it until the next time it happened.
The way London and I ended cuddle season was perfect, but that gnawing pain was there with each text, each time I saw her, each time we hid in a closet and dry-fucked until I was going to, or did, come in my fucking pants.
I didn’t want to be her sliver, her pain, her infection, so the texts stopped.
Sounds sweet, kind, like a loving gesture. It was somewhat. But I also knew the next time she felt feelings for someone else, like a sliver under her nail, she would be reminded of me, her first kiss. And while we can all lie to ourselves about shit ending “nicely,” we know the reality is we will always remember. We will remember the good and the bad, and then we will think twice about ever putting ourselves in that fucking position again.
While in New York, I tried really hard to get Mom to “Mom up.” When I realized I had let too much time and distance come between us, I vowed not to make that mistake again.
Fuck Fletcher. He’s not about to become shit to her.
Fuck Brody. She’s not a little girl.
Fuck love and all the shit that can fail, keeping us guarded from the beauty of it.
Fuck madmen who take the life out of those left living.
Fuck her for not texting me back.
And fuck me for not manning up and believing what I feel, what she feels, can work.
Oh, and fuck those who made me doubt.
I’m a fucking player, and a game is a game.
To win the game, you have to know the other players and how to overtake them.
I know her.
It’s two in the morning, and I can’t sleep knowing she’s so fucking close. I look out the window, see a light on, and her silhouette. Clearly, she can’t sleep either.
I watch her and realize she’s dancing. I see her turn and stop. Then she raises her leg behind her, toes pointed at the damn ceiling. Her lean body appears to be in a straight line.
It’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. It’s also making me fucking hard knowing she’s that damn flexible.
I sigh, knowing I’m going to be rubbing one out more than once a day if she keeps that shit up.
I walk out of my room, grab a bottle of Jack, and laugh, thinking I’m about to have a date with my fucking hand while watching a private performance by the girl I love.
I watch her move, stretch, and twirl as I drink, wishing I had bought a pair of binoculars like she mentioned.
When my dick is so hard I can’t stand it, I push down my boxers and stand at the window, gripping the base tightly and stroking it slowly up to the head. When she stops and walks away, I groan, thinking I’m going to have to finish myself off without the visual.
I see the reflection of my phone light up and walk over to grab it.
London.
I sent a text saying goodnight and you didn’t reply. So, goodnight again.
I reply immediately.
Phone was dead. Can’t sleep?
I look out the window as she sits on the bed, holding her phone. The floating bubbles start to appear as she types, then they stop. I look up as she flops back on the bed, seemingly frustrated.
I’m okay.
I saw you dancing.
The bubbles immediately appear.
How did you see me?
Look out the window.
She gets up and walks over. I hold up my phone so she sees the light.
Was watching you dance. You looked amazing.
Are you okay?
I’m good.
Do you want me to come over?
No, London, watching you dance and having a couple drinks made things real hard over here. Stay put.
Hard?
Yeah, I’ve got it handled.
After I send it, I regret it.
Does that mean you’re…
Jerking off while I watch you dance? Yeah.
I watch her cover her mouth as she reads my text then looks out the window.
Binoculars are now being added to my shopping list.
I could come over and cuddle.
Not a good idea right now. I’m on a date with Jack and Rosie.
I look at the window as she receives my text.
She walks away and turns on the light. Now I can see her.
You’re missing out, and so am I.
Damn her… temptress.
You need sleep. So do I.
I slept better than I ever have after the last time we cuddled.
You mean after you came?
I grip my cock, picturing her face as she fell apart.
You’re lucky you’re a guy.
I get an idea. A great idea.
I take a picture of my hand gripping my cock. Then I crop it so you don’t see my dick, just my hand gripping it. I send it and then start typing.
Lie on your bed. I need you to do something for me.
What?
Do it.
When I see her lie down, I hit call, and she answers immediately.
“Run your hand down that sexy as fuck belly of yours and push your hand under your waistband.”
“Logan, I’d rather you do that,” she whispers.
“And I’d rather you know how to get yourself off, so when I let that genie out of the bottle, your insatiable appetite can be curbed even when I’m not around.”
“What do you mean, when you’re not around?” she whispers.
“I mean, when you’re at school and you’re thinking of how much you want my cock, you can go and suppress the need in just a few seconds.”
“Seconds?”
“Pretty, I’m gonna teach you everything I’ve learned while trying to get a girl off fast so I could bust a nut and get them out the door, because I didn’t want any of them in my bed, because they weren’t you.”
“Logan…” she sighs.
“Do it. Push your hand under your waistband and run a finger up and down the seam of your pussy lips.”
“This seems wrong,” she whispers.
“I’m over here, stroking my cock, watching a private ballet; is that wrong?”
A scorching workplace romance proves hazardous in this new stand-alone from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Cora Brent.
Cora Brent was born in a cold climate and escaped as soon as it was legally possible. Now, she lives in the desert with her husband, two kids and a prickly pear cactus she has affectionately named ‘Spot’. Cora’s closet is filled with boxes of unfinished stories that date back her 1980’s childhood and all her life she has dreamed of being an author. Amazingly, she is now a New York Times and USA Today bestselling writer of contemporary romance and begs not to be awakened from this dream.
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