Page 47 of My Favorite Hero

Her nipples were stiff, peaked. A deep shade of dark pink. Perfect for sucking.

Just like in my fantasy last night.

I shook my head. What the hell was I doing ogling her breasts while she was lying on the floor?

How the fuck did she get in here?

Before I could speak, her eyes widened.

“Holy Batman,” she whispered. “That is an impressive fire hose.”

I looked down, startled. My cock had decided he liked Casey on the floor, her breasts on display. I was rock hard. Solid.

“Ah—” I stammered.

“The Dark Knight rises,” she intoned.

If anything, I got harder.

“Towel,” I snapped.

She rolled to her knees, handing me the towel without a word.

Jesus. Now, her mouth was inches from my dick, which wanted me to shuffle forward and say hello properly.

“Tits,” I almost yelled, wrapping the towel back around my waist. It didn’t do anything to hide my situation, but I felt marginally more in control.

“Have you developed Tourette syndrome? Or do you always yell tits when upset?” she asked, still looking up at me from her knees.

I leaned down, almost hissing at her. “Your tits, Casey. They. Are. On. Display.”

She looked down, grimacing and pulling at her tank.

“Well, tit for tat—or in this case…cock, I guess.”

I groaned. Hearing her say cock wasn’t helping my situation. I reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. “Put on a shirt and sit down. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back.”

Racing up the stairs with an aching hard-on wasn’t easy, but I managed. I yanked on a T-shirt, then cursed and changed. I wasn’t wearing a bloody Batman one right now. I found a fire station shirt and pulled it over my head. I stood for a moment, trying to think of terrible things. Sad things. Dead puppies. Mark snoring at night. My house covered in wind chimes.

Anything but Casey’s breasts.

Her perfect, rose-tipped, lush breasts.

Dammit.

Deciding I had no dignity left, I headed back downstairs. Casey was on the sofa, looking strangely docile. She was wearing one of my old T-shirts, somehow looking even sexier than she had a few moments ago.

“Don’t you own any shirts?”

She frowned, indicating the laundry I hadn’t taken upstairs yet. “You said sit on the sofa. Put on a shirt. I thought you meant one of these.”

I ran a hand through my hair in vexation. “Jesus, I need a drink.”

I stomped to the kitchen, feeling my anger build. I grabbed the closest bottle and poured a healthy amount of scotch into the glass and downed it, feeling the burn as it ran down my throat and into my belly.

I stood for a moment, willing myself to relax.

Then I returned to the living room, handing Casey a bottle of water. “Drink it.”