Page 29 of Eighteen (18)

I look up at my patio-facing window and there he is. I can barely make him out in the darkness, but I see him well enough.

“Do it,” he says. “You might like to think you’re in control, but you’re not. I am.”

“You’re creepy, Mateo.”

“Thank you. But you’re keeping me waiting.”

“I told you, I don’t like stalkers.”

“I’m not a stalker. I’m your boyfriend.”

How many times can he stun me silent in one day?

I get up and flip the light on, walk back to my futon, and lie down. But instead of lying down the right way, so my feet face the opposite wall, I lie down sideways, so Mateo can watch.

I’m sick. I realize this.

But I’m turned on like crazy too. So I close my eyes and reach between my legs.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” he says into the phone. “Stick your fingers inside yourself.”

I gush at that. Like, I’m so fucking wet, I might have a problem.

Mateo starts breathing harder on the other end of the phone. “Are you getting off?” I ask.

“Shh,” he says back. But I know he is. I picture him in my head. His fat cock in his fist as he pumps up and down along his shaft. I picture myself lying on the desk in the classroom, panting with surprise and lust. I picture the look on his face when he came on my shirt.

I come with that picture in my head. We groan at the same time, him in the phone next to my ear.

“Feel better?”

I nod.

“Lick your fingers.”

God, I want to come again. Like right now. But I do as he says and place them in my mouth.

“What do they taste like?”

“You,” I say softly. “They taste like you.”

I don’t even bother looking up at the window. I can almost feel his smile. “You’re perfect,” he whispers back. “Should we make it even?”

“Wha—How?”

“I’ll let you watch me get off tomorrow in class. Don’t be late.”

And then I get the hang-up beeps. I stare at the phone for several seconds, relaxing into my post-orgasm state, lying naked in my bed, and thinking about all that happened today. This man, I moan internally. He’s probably more than I can handle. No, not probably. He is. Ten years makes a big difference in sexual appetite.

I have no idea what all that was but holy hell, it was hot. And I like it. I might not think it’s normal, but I like it. And I’m going to picture his perfect cock and what he might look like sitting in that chair at school when he beats off in front of me.

Sick, Shannon. You’re sick.

But I don’t care.

I get up and grab my shorts from the patio, realizing that he took my shirt with him.

What will he do with it? Smell it as he jerks off? Wrap it around his cock? Sleep with it under his pillow?