Page 29 of Delicate Storm

Lethal.

The second she’s gone, my gaze flits to my pants, and I snort laugh. She fucking lied. She couldn’t see anything.

And something about that makes me want to show her what she’s missing. I want her to see that if I was hard, there’d be nothing slight about the bulge, and she wouldn’t be smiling. She’d be begging me to fuck her.

Idon’t go to the gym the following day like Paige expects, or the next, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about her.

Especially when I’m in the shower a few nights later, my palm wrapped around my throbbing cock, picturing her on her knees, her smart mouth open, ready to take me in.

My length twitches, but I hold back from giving in to my urges. Because if I do this now, where does it end? When I’m slamming into her as she begs me to make her come? Or when she’s yelling at me to leave because I can’t give her what she wants?

I’m closed off. I have no space in my head for anything more than a quick fuck. And while I barely know Paige, I know she deserves better than that.

But maybe she doesn’t want more.

My thoughts clash in a war of chaos as I picture her hands taking over from mine, imagining her red lips as they glide along my length, sucking me into her mouth, her tongue rolling against my tip.

She cries out as my length hits the back of her throat, her eyes filled with tears while she smiles up at me, enjoying every second of me fucking her face.

What I wouldn’t give… No, I can’tand,“Oh fuck. Oh God.”

I pump harder, my hand braced against the wall as I picture her nails digging into my ass, the vibrations of her whimpers sending a spark to my shaft and, “Fuck. Jesus. Fuck.”

I grunt as my orgasm hits, my cum shooting out onto the shower wall, my body convulsing in spasms.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.But fuck, my hand has never felt so good.

If only I didn’t have to lock Paige in a box marked “too good to damage” because a little part of me would give anything to ruin her.

Who the hell am I?

What is she doing to me?

God, I need sleep. I’m delusional.

The next morning, my phone rings when I’m about to leave for the gym, and I groan at the interruption. That groan only intensifies when I see that it’s Macy.

“Hi,” I huff, pulling my shoe on with my phone wedged between my shoulder and ear.

“Hey, it’s me,” she responds, her voice light and fluffy, like we didn’t part on bad terms, and it pisses me off.

“It’s Monday, Macy. Isaac’s with my mom, remember? They just went for a walk. If you want to speak to him, you’ll need to call tomorrow. Or you can call her.” I’d rather she didn’t, but I’m offering because I know that she won’t.

“Ugh,” she whines. “That’s not going to happen. She hates me.”

I wonder why.

“Anyway, I called to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“I’ll be in San Francisco this weekend and I want to take Isaac out for the day Saturday. I could take him to the zoo or the museum, or run around at the beach. Some mother and son bonding time. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“You want to take him out?”

“Yes, why do you sound so skeptical?”

“Because you never once took him out while you were here.”

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