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I pump myself up, with each step I take.
But I don’t even believe my own bullshit.
No. I. Can’t.
I won’t survive this.
Rhys’s bike is a lot less appealing with each passing day.
I’m strung up tighter than the tightrope acrobats walk on. As crazy as it sounds, I’ve jerked off more in the past week and a half than I have in all of my teenage years combined.
My balls are aching.
My cock is desperate.
Self-gratification when it’s all you’re getting is almost pointless and cruel.
And dare I say porn quickly becomes lackluster.
Thirteen excruciating long days without pussy.
Fuck, this born-again virgin shit is torture.
Last night, I dreamt of begging a woman to sit on my face so I could devour her pussy for an hour straight. And I’m not talking about just any woman. The pussy I wanted to ravish was Arianne’s.
There. I said it.
What I wouldn’t give to get my mouth on her and feel the swell of her clit against my tongue and taste the sweetness of her slickness.
Dammit!
I’m hard again.
Aware of eyes on me, it’s impossible to adjust myself.
It’s like walking with a third leg.
Fuck!
As I stroll across the executive floor, I nod left and right, dropping good mornings and flashing a warm smile, as I make my way to Arianne’s newly appointed office. Rhys is going to learn the hard way; you don’t challenge me unless you expect to lose.
If he thinks I can’t charm a woman, he’s going to get whiplash. I’ll make sure to send him a nice catalog of selfies of Arianne and me, sitting on his prized bike.
“Knock, knock, knock,” I say, my knuckles rapping against the door of Arianne’s new office.
“Come in!”
“Good morning, Arianne, I thought you’d—”
I freeze.
She isn’t alone.
She’s sitting next to Rhys.
He flashes me a shit-eating grin. “Good morning, buddy,” he says.
“Good morning,” I say, unwilling to return his smile. I tear my attention away from him. “Good morning, Arianne.”
