Page 87 of Riding the Sugar High

My cock throbs, pleasure shooting from my balls and straight up, almost leaving me dizzy. I pull the pillow over my head again, and I might be going crazy, because I can still hear her. It’s like she’s in front of me, flushed, dimpled cheeks and hungry eyes, bringing herself to climax.

Fuuuuck.

She flirts with me. She teases me. Then she rejects me. And now she’s picturing me—picturing me doing what? How? Why aren’t wedoingit?

No. No, Logan. You don’t need the complication. It’s better this way.

Except I’m so hard I might just come in my briefs.

“Primrose,” I bark before I can command my mouth to shut. There’s a few seconds of silence, then the vibrator is turned off.

“Y-yeah?”

“Can you hear me fine?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then so can I!”

Nothing.

I could kick myself, because I know I pissed her off—that she’s probably embarrassed. And now I won’t get to hear her come.

Wellfuckingplayed.

I close my eyes, not that I have any hope of sleeping now, and after a few seconds, the door of her room shuts. More noises follow, and I can’t tell what she’s doing, but she’s up.

“Goddammit,” I say as I stand and venture into the corridor, tucking my erection into the waistband of my sweats.

“Hey.” I knock twice at her door. “What’s going on now?”

“What’s going on?” she shrieks in a sarcastic voice. “I’m leaving, that’s what’s going on!”

She’s what?

Paco wobbles lazily beside me as I scratch my head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m leaving. I’m done. Being caught masturbating is where I draw the line, okay? I’m out.”

Eyes rolling, I rest my forehead against her door. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”

“No, not at all.”

“Can I open the door?”

“I can’t look you in the eyes.”

“Then look away,” I mumble before pushing the door open.

With a gasp, she turns around, then throws herself at the tiny pink vibrator on her bed before pocketing it. “Seriously? I said no!”

Glancing at the half-stuffed backpack on the desk, then her open luggage, I exhale. “Primrose, masturbating is normal.”

“I know,” she mutters, throwing more clothes into the backpack. Her cheeks are still red, her hair ruffled. It makes itsohard to think.

“Tell you what. Walk into my shower tomorrow, and you’ll catch me.”

She glares, which feels like an improvement.

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