Page 7 of The Downstairs Flirt

Preston

Forty-five minutes later, I get a text from Ever After Blooms, the florist, stating my flowers will be delivered shortly. About fucking time. I sit back at my desk and wait.

Gorgeous Girl

I can’t stop grinning. Thank you for the flowers! My coworkers are deeply jealous.

I read it four times, trying to memorize the way her words sound in my head. I imagine her in the library, surrounded by books and sunlight, smiling at the arrangement, and my chest gets tight. Fuck. I’ve lost my goddamn mind over her.

I’m glad you like them. And the jealous coworkers are a bonus. See you Friday.

The little dots appear again. Then thirty seconds later, her reply comes in.

Gorgeous Girl

Counting down the hours :)

Me, too. Hell, at this point, I’m down to counting the goddamn seconds. I’m useless for the rest of the day. At the gym, I nearly drop a dumbbell on my foot because I’m daydreaming about how Hazel’s curls would look fanned out on my pillow. At dinner, I burn my leftover chili while Googling “best first date restaurants near me.” I go down a three-hour rabbit hole comparing menus, looking at photos of the interior spaces, even cross-referencing YELP reviews. I’m putting more effort into this first date than I did into researching which college to attend. But fuck, Hazel is worth it.

I settle on the Old Towne Steakhouse. The restaurant strikes that perfect balance—dark wood and leather booths that whisper "special occasion,” but still warm and welcoming. They offer dry-aged ribeyes and fancy craft cocktails garnished with things that smoke and smolder. The kind of place where you can order a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine or just point at the beer list without judgment. Not so fancy you need a tie, but fancy enough that the desserts arrive engulfed in blue flame. Perfect for what I’m planning.

I book the reservation for seven-thirty on Friday, then spend the next hour staring at the baseball game on TV while visions of Hazel run through my mind. Fuck. I couldn’t even tell you who’s playing. Before bed, I decide to run a few miles, hoping to exhaust myself.

I hit the gym downstairs, pounding out four miles at a punishing clip. My entire body burns, sweat pouring off me, but it’s not enough. I’m still hard as a fucking rock, all that pent-up energy ricocheting through every muscle. Hazel is in my head, every second, every step. By the time I get back up to my apartment, my skin is on fire, and my cock is straining against my shorts, desperate for relief.

I yank off my shirt and drop it on the floor before stripping out of my shorts. Then I stalk straight for the shower. After stepping under the icy spray, my hand wraps around my cock, and I barely have to move before my fantasies kick into overdrive—me and Hazel tangled in my bed, her voice breaking as she begs for it. Fuck. I grip harder, chasing the vision of her lips, parted and breathless, her curves pressed against me, and the way she looks at me, hungry, wild, like she wants to be ruined. I can practically feel it, the want winding tight inside me, almost too much to take.

I pump faster. Every nerve ending sparks, and the pressure builds until my whole body locks up. I groan her name, low and desperate, fist tight around my cock, because I can’t hold back. The orgasm rips through me so hard I have to brace a hand on the shower wall, water pounding down my back as fireworks erupt behind my eyelids.

Fuck. I’m panting, forehead pressed to the tile, still shaking from the aftershocks. All that just from thinking about Hazel. Jesus Christ. I’m so far gone for this girl that it’s not even funny. I rinse off, shove my hand through my hair, and try to get my pulse back to normal.

It doesn’t work. I’m still hard for her. Still hungry. All my usual control is shot to hell.

After I towel off, I study myself in the bathroom mirror. I look like a man who’s barely clinging to civilization. Jaw tight, eyes too bright, mouth set in a hard line. I look like a man on the edge. Which, honestly, is pretty accurate.

I drop into my bed and grab my phone. I try to play it cool, but the truth is, I need some sort of contact with her, so I send a quick text.