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Before I could ask, he took a dirty rag from his pocket, and then held both my hands in the palm of one of his. My body was dwarfed by his.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning you up.”
He gently massaged the rag over my hands. Without realizing it, I saw that they’d gotten dirty with stray oil droplets. I must’ve been distracted under the car, too busy thinking about my survival and proximity to Carter. Unfortunately, not in that order.
“There, you’re all set.”
Carter dropped my hands, and made a quick pass at his own.
“Let me help.”
I took the rag from him, and returned the favor. It was a moment of sharing, of intimacy, one that couldn’t be denied. My strokes were firm, taking off layers of congealed grease.
“Thanks.” His voice shook. I stayed quiet, knowing that if I replied, my quavering tone would give me away too.
I slipped the rag into his pocket, and Carter’s eyes went wide.
He stuttered. “I have to, uh — I have to go to the bathroom.”
Without another word, he pivoted on one foot and fled in the opposite direction.
Jesus! Every time we got close, he bolted. Was it me? Or was it just him?
The frustration welled within me, and this time, I didn’t feel the energy to tamp it down.
I let out a long, deep growl of annoyance and turned to kick at the underside of the mangled car.
CHAPTER 14
Carter
THE BATHROOM boasted a tiny ceramic toilet, a matching sink, and a flickering light bulb. In the corner were several mops that hadn’t been used since the eighties and a stack of employee lockers, from when there’d been multiple employees who needed multiple lockers.
It wasn’t exactly my idea of a sanctuary, but it would have to do, because I needed to take a breath after getting so close to Phoebe.
I fumbled with the lock and felt like I was shaking.
“Shit!” I whisper-yelled at myself in the mirror. “Why are you fucking like this? Why are you so damaged?!”
The mirror didn’t offer any reply. I was yelling at an inanimate object. Great.
Meanwhile, my cock was so stiff you could crack a brick on it. Being around Phoebe seemed to have that effect on me — constant anger, constant horniness. I was tired of being so dominated by my emotions.
But I still couldn’t fuck her. I still had a vow of celibacy to keep. More importantly, I still had Henry. I knew that he was becoming too affectionate to her, getting too settled in. And this girl, wonderful as she was… well, she didn’t want my problems. My life was fucked up enough without thrusting it onto someone else.
I needed to let off some steam. That was the obvious answer. I’d been racing out of the house that morning, and hadn’t had a chance to unwind. But it wouldn’t take me too long. I was so pent up that I knew I could, uh, clear the pipes in just a matter of minutes.
With that, I tugged my pants down, still facing the mirror, and whipped my hard cock out, letting it hover over the cold tile of the sink.
I wanted to touch Phoebe, just once, just once and then I’d never think about it again. And since I couldn’t do that, I’d have to settle with touching myself.
In a frenzy, I began to yank at my cock.
Ohhhhh shit. That was good.
This had been a long time coming. Only a day, actually, I corrected myself. How had it managed to feel like a couple of lifetimes?
I placed a hand on the rim of the sink to steady myself, the strokes coming hard and fast. Masturbation had been kind of elusive to me since… well, since the incident. After that, there was Henry to raise, a new life to start in a different state. And, more importantly, I had sworn not to lay with another woman, so the act of jacking off seemed futile. Why remind myself of what I couldn’t have?
But this was different. This was primal, necessary. If I hadn’t whipped my cock out, I’d just be looking at Phoebe and thinking about doing it, which wouldn’t be very gentlemanly at all. There’d hardly be any concentration left to fix her car.
All right, you caught me, I’m just making excuses.
Because the reason I was touching myself, the only reason that mattered, was that I wanted to fuck Phoebe so badly it made my bones ache.
My head tipped forward, my forehead touching the cool mirror, as I arched my hips to the sink.
“Phoebe,” I urged myself. “Don’t stop, you’re so close.”
Muscles in my hand and arm were beginning to cramp, and my breath was fogging up the mirror. I tried to tilt back, worried that in the violence of my desire, my head might shatter the glass.
But it was too late.
Pulling my cock ever harder, I felt my orgasm begin to swell, move, quake. I gritted my teeth, breath hastening as my body tensed in preparation.
