I strip off my clothes as I walk to the bathroom, leaving a trail of fabric on the floor. The water takes a minute to heat up, and I stand under the spray, letting it wash away the smell of the bar.
It doesn't wash away the memories.
I close my eyes, and the memory of the locker room floods my mind.
Ethan, sitting on that bench, looking up at me with those desperate, hungry eyes. Pulling me onto his lap.
My hand slides down my stomach.
I shouldn't do this. It's wrong and pathetic.
I do it anyway.
My fingers find the slick heat between my legs, and a shaky breath slips past my lips. I'm already swollen and wet, my body responding to the memory of him as if he's right here with me.
I let my fingers circle my clit. Slow and teasing, the way I imagine he would tease me if he had the chance.
But Ethan wouldn't tease. Not for long. He's too intense and too hungry. He would take what he wanted and make me scream while he did it.
I imagine those big, rough hands on me. They gripped my thighs so hard I’m sure I’ll wake up with bruises tomorrow. I imagine him pushing me against the wall, lifting my leg over his hip, positioning himself at my entrance.
He would be big. A man like that, with shoulders that wide and hands that large, would have a cock to match. Thick and heavy and intimidating. The size that makes you nervous the first time you see it.
I wouldn't be nervous. I would be desperate. Iamdesperate.
My fingers move faster, pressing harder. The water streams down my body, and I imagine it's his mouth, trailing hot kisses down my neck, my breasts, my stomach.
He would drop to his knees. I imagine his tongue on me. Long, slow strokes that make my legs tremble. Then faster and more urgent, his hands gripping my thighs to hold me still while he devours me.
A moan escapes my lips, and I bite down on my lower lip to silence it. The walls are thin, and the last thing I need is for someone to hear me.
For him to hear me.
The thought of Ethan listening to me pleasure myself should be horrifying. Instead, it sends a fresh wave of arousal through me. I imagine him in his apartment, just a wall away, hearing my moans through the wall. Getting hard. Stroking himself while he listens.
I imagine him unable to stand it anymore. Coming to my door. Breaking it down if he has to. Finding me in the shower, naked and needy, and calling his name.
He would take me right here. Press me against the tile and thrust into me in one hard stroke. Fill me completely and pound into me until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but take what he gave me.
My fingers plunge inside myself, and I cry out. I pump my fingers in and out, my palm grinding against my clit with each thrust. My other hand finds my breast, and I squeeze, pinching my nipple the way he did.
His cock would feel so good inside me. Stretching me and hitting spots I didn't even know existed. He would fuck me hard. A man that wound up, that frustrated, that desperate, wouldn't know any other way.
And I would love every second of it.
The orgasm builds fast, coiling tighter and tighter in my core. I imagine Ethan grunting my name as he comes, then I would fall asleep in his arms and wake up to find him hard again, ready for round two.
I come with a strangled cry, my walls clenching around my fingers, my body shuddering against the tile. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me, and I ride it out, gasping his name under my breath.
When it's over, I slump against the wall, my legs barely able to hold me. I just came harder than I have in months, maybe years, thinking about a man I'm supposed to be helping recover.
I just masturbated to my patient.
Shame curdles in my stomach. Hours ago, I let Ethan Ward put his mouth on me. I straddled him in a changing room and ground myself against him like I had no self-control. And now I'm in my shower, fingers inside myself, moaning his name like I've learned nothing.
What kind of person does this? What kind of professional crosses every boundary and then goes home and pleasures herself to the memory?
7
