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Donut has the right idea.
But this is the last thing I need—to see her looking this sexy after hearing her come last night. I cannot give in. I cannot get involved. My teammates are already playing with fire. I can’t add kerosene to the flames.
Should have picked the tiny house to stay in instead of the damn loft. When I slept in the tiny home last night, the damage had already been done. I finally returned to the property well after midnight. Took a long walk around town with a podcast in my ears, trying to wash away the sound of her climax.
Maybe I’ll take my breakfast and eat it on the front porch. I spoon some more yogurt and granola into my mouth. Yup. I’ll do that in one more second.
After I watch this next pose.
But she stops midway through her downward dog, sinks to her knees, then knee-walks over to…a tripod.
Oh. She’s shooting a video.
Damn, she’s a worker bee. But she always has fresh content on her channel, so it makes sense she’d be shooting all the time. Her tripod is set up on a low stool on the deck, but it’s tilted at an odd angle.
I scoop another spoonful of yogurt.
When she reaches for the tripod, it topples to the deck before she even touches it or her phone.
I stop the spoon midway to my mouth to peer out the window. It looks like the leg is loose on the tripod? Briar’s trying to put it back in position, setting it down gingerly again on the stool when the leg goes kersplat.
As she grabs it, her gaze catches me staring at her through the window. And I’m busted. Her brow knits, then her lips quirk up in an unasked question. Have you been watching me?
Can’t stay here like a helpless jackass now. Besides, it’s not like my secret’s written across my forehead—I jacked off hard to you last night.
No. Ferociously is more like it.
When I returned late last night, crashing in the tiny house alone with my lust and the soundtrack of Briar’s orgasm, I took matters into my own hand.
Twice.
She won’t be able to tell though. My poker face is stellar.
With my yogurt in hand, I head outside. Donut pops up, tilting her snout, then barking like she doesn’t know me. But when she charges over to me, she licks my leg in a hello instead.
“Hey, girl,” I say to the dog.
“I guess she likes you,” Briar says.
“Dogs do more than people.”
“I don’t know if I believe that.”
“Believe it,” I say.
“Well, I think it’s a good sign she likes you. She didn’t like Steven. That should have been a sign to me.”
“Steven’s a dick.” I should know. I looked him up last week. Even his bio screams asshole. He bragged about liking Macallan. Who the fuck does that? “Bet he’s a name-dropper. Bet he’s the type of guy who makes plans with his girlfriend but not the kind of plans you want. Bet he doesn’t take care of you when you’re sick since he’s afraid he’ll catch it. Bet he says he believes in you but doesn’t really know what you do for a living. Also I bet he grunts while doing arm curls at the gym.”
She blinks, her lips parted in surprise. “How did you know about the grunting?”
“Took a guess.”
“Impressive,” she says, shifting to sit on her knees. “But actually, I don’t know about that. I didn’t go to the gym with him.”
“Trust me—he’s the type of guy who grunts while doing arm curls.” Then I stage-whisper, “There’s no need to unless you’re lifting cars.” But enough about him. I nod toward her camera setup. “Is your tripod broken?”
“The leg is loose,” she says. “But I can fix it. If there’s a Phillips-head screwdriver here in the house or garage.”
