Page 53 of Not You Again

Gathering what little is left of my frayed self-control, I drag a hand down my face, turning around, and say with a growl, “I forgot my headphones.”

The only response I get is a little “hmph” and the sound of her vibrator turning on. Jesus fucking Christ, there’s only so much I can take. “By all means,” I grumble, “do continue.”

She snorts and I hear a shuffle on the sheets. I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel something soft land on my shoulder. I reach up to grab her panties, still warm from her body and smelling like her. I’m about to come in my shorts. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m trying to get off,” she says with her usual amount of snark. “You’re the one who barged in here like the building was on fire.”

I let out a heavy, shaking sigh. I realize too late I’m standing in front of the dresser. Which has a goddamn mirror on it. My eyes meet hers in the reflection. The sheets are crumpled at her feet, blocking the view I want the most. It doesn’t stop my dick from twitching a cheer of encouragement.

“Are you going to leave?” She sounds so removed, aloof. Like she isn’t half naked in our bed with a vibrator. With me right the fuck here.

“No.” The word rumbles out of my throat before I can think this through.

She rolls her eyes and shifts in the sheets to get comfortable. If she’s playing chicken with me, she’s really fucking good at it. I actually believe she’s going to—

I hold my breath as I watch her position her wand vibrator where she wants it. She lets out a contented sigh, and I nearly black out. I press my hand to the top of the dresser to steady my buckling knees.

The line we drew to keep from touching: absolutely hilarious.

I drag in ragged breaths and try to remember why I came back up to the apartment, and I can’t. Then Andie tilts her head back, exposing the soft underside of her throat, and all I can remember is that I desperately want to bite her there.

A swear escapes my mouth in a groan.

Andie sounds remarkably unbothered, if a little breathless, when she asks, “Are you just going to stand there or what?”

I’m going to hell. Maybe I’m already there, and Andie’s the devil who brings out the worst in me. All I know is, I’m lowering the waistband of my running shorts and freeing my dick. If she’s going to get off being a pain in the ass, so the hell am I.

Her eyes catch mine in the mirror and she smiles a devious smile. “So he’s not a perfect gentleman after all.”

If she knew all the places in this apartment I’d imagined bending her over and fucking her until she screamed, she wouldn’t be saying something like that. I don’t dare say that out loud, so all she gets is a grunt as I curl my fingers around my dick and squeeze until my vision blurs around the edges.

I don’t miss how her eyes fall to my thighs. She lets out a whimper and shivers on the bed. “I’ll make you a deal.”

I grunt again. How on earth can she hold a conversation right now?

“Whoever finishes first does the dishes for the next month.”

I can’t help but let out a puff of laughter. She hates doing the dishes. Hates it. Complains about it every fucking time, like the world is going to end if she has to unload the dishwasher when it’s done. I manage to get out a “fine” before she lifts the hem of her T-shirt and my brain sputters to a halt.

I pump my dick as she slowly reveals her stomach, then her ribs, then the glorious underside of her breasts, and finally, her nipples. They’re hard and erect and waiting for my mouth. Heat tumbles through me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, slamming my hand on the top of the dresser, clutching her panties so tightly I can’t feel my fingers anymore.

Her perfume bottles rattle against each other, making the perfect music to complement her low laughter. I grit my teeth and start fighting back; every time she loads that fucking dishwasher, I want her to think of me and how I could absolutely ruin her for any other man.

In a low voice, I tell her, “I can hear how wet you are.”

She lets out a tiny whimper in response. Her vibrator turns up a notch and I smile to myself.

“Tell me,” I say as I pump myself once, twice, “is that for me?”

Our eyes lock in the mirror, and for a moment I think she’ll tell me to fuck off. Instead, she says, “Like you don’t think about me when you fuck your hand.”

“I do,” I admit with a shudder. “Of course I do.”

She lets out a long moan that ends quivering into the silence. A slice of heat slides through my belly and I take in a deep breath. She enjoys the idea that I think about her when I get off.

More than a little breathless, my voice ragged and raw, I tell her, “I think about burying my dick in that pretty pussy of yours. All the time.”

She whispers my name, maybe to scold me, but it also sounds a little like, Yes, please, don’t stop.

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