Page 108 of Slap Shot

Lock myself in the bathroom until she finishes and pretend like it never happened?

Move out of the building and change my name?

All three are good options. All three take the high road. All three make me look like a stand-up guy.

But what the hell do I do instead?

I lean against the headboard. I drop my head back against the wall.

And I listen like a goddamn creep.

She moans again, but it’s different this time.

Raspier, deeper.Needier, and my mind races.

What is she thinking about? What speed does she like to use? Is the toy enough to get her off, or is it just to tease? Does she use it during sex? What kind of stimulation does she prefer? Does she fuck herself with it, or is it only for her clit?

Madeline’s vibrator shuts off, and I hope she’s not done.

I hope she’s just getting started.

I’m greedy. Feral to hear more, and when the toy starts back up, it’s been switched to a faster setting. Some variation that adds a pulsing sensation to wherever she’s touching herself, and I recognize the change in the tempo.

I’m proud to admit there’s a solid three seconds where I consider slipping on my noise canceling headphones and attempting to sleep, but the other side of my brain—the side still thinking about kissing her even though she said it’s not going to happen again—wins out.

I’m a good guy.

I’ve helped others and gone above and beyond for my community.

I’ve racked up a lot of good karma, and I hope the gods above don’t judge me too harshly when I yank down my pajama bottoms and wrap my hand around my hard cock.

God.

One touch and I’m on fire. My imagination is running rampant, and I try to remember the last time I got off.

A few weeks ago?

A month or two?

I don’t even know.

Tonight, I’m desperate for it. It’s like I’m in there with her. I can hear her sheets moving, and I picture her on her back. Her head against the pillows and her legs spread wide. I don’t know if I’d want to be between her thighs so I could watch—so I couldtaste—or behind her so I could help guide her through it. So I could whisper in her ear and put a hand low on her stomach, there if she wanted help.

Does she do this every night? If she does, why haven’t I heard her before?

Is it a special occasion?

Is she making a video and sending it to someone else so they can watch her fall apart?

Is she thinking about me like I’m thinking about her?

I hear a “Fuck” from the other side of the wall and I bite my lip so I don’t say it back.

I pull my hand away from my cock. I spit in the center of my palm then start again. This is filthy. Completely unhinged, but I don’t care. I stroke myself up and down, and for the first time in months, there’s an image of a specific woman in mind as I relax into the satisfaction of getting off:her.

We agreed to be friends. I know we said what happened on New Year’s isn’t going to happen again, but I wish it would. I wish I could knock on her door and join her on her bed.

Hell, I’d be happy to stand in the hall and watch from afar. I’d be happy to keep my hands to myself until she told me I could touch myself—could touchher.

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