Page 39 of Manhattan Tormentor

The asshole smirks directly at me like he knows what his words are doing to me. I’m three seconds away from hanging up on his taunting. He’s found a more resourceful way to mess with me and I’m falling for it like a panting moron, eye-fucking him.

“Do it,” I say, stunning myself.

He bolts up in the chair, stubs out what is left of the smoke and pushes a smirk onto those sinful lips.

“Think I won’t?”

“I know you won’t. You’re already terrified I jerked you off.”

“My dick wants to ram into your throat, how terrified does that sound, Fierro?”

A lump the size of my fist stops all the air in my windpipe. And while I’m searching for something to say, the camera wigs out again while he props the phone up.

Suddenly I see Finn’s long frame manspreading in a roller chair.

Legs wide, arms dangling at his sides. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a muscle t-shirt without sleeves.

He looks so good. I wanna slurp him up.

Noticeably, he is so massively hard behind the material.

“Are you horny because of me or because you’re high?”

“I don’t know,” he croaks, cupping himself.

It’s the sexiest thing and when he pushes his hand into his shorts and brings out his gorgeous cock, I inhalefast.

It’s big and angry looking. He strokes.

“Those fucking lips,” Finn curses to himself. He’s panting through his open mouth, staring at me with his smoldering gaze. “What are you doing to me?”

“Nothing, you have that handled.” I rasp. My cock is a lead pipe in my underwear, and I use my free hand to heel over it to stop the ache. It doesn’t help, and I moan through my teeth.

“Come on,” he exhales. “Help me out, show me something.”

I’m boneless on the big hotel bed. I’m jelly skin and raging hormones. I know what he’s asking me, but I can’t trust Finn that far. I don’t know if he’s recording from his end so there’s no way I’m getting my dick out even if my hands are itching to do just that.

I point the camera above my head so he can see my bare chest and tented erection. Swear to god, his grunt sends a tremble through me and I bring the phone too close to my face as I lick my lips.

He groans again and I watch a rope of come shoot out of him and onto his belly.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

“Fuck,” he repeats, slouching back after yanking off his shirt to clean up the mess. That reminds me of the shirt he left in my car. The one I tossed in the washing machine, dried, and then hung up in my closet like a damn fangirl with a souvenir.

Once he finally raises his head, his eyes are pleasure glassy, and he’s chewing on his lower lip.

“Did you enjoy—”

I don’t get a chance to finish that thought because the door swings open behind him. Finn shoves the phone face down. An older male voice barks at him.

“It’s after 2, what are you doing in here? And do I smell smoke? For fuck’s sake, when are you gonna grow up, Finn? I’m this close to…”

“Give it a rest, Dad, okay? I’m doing nothing but sitting here and you still bitch at me.”

“Because you’re a fucking waste of space, more interested in getting hammered then you are in your future. Get to bed. You need to pack tomorrow, don’t expect your mother to do it for you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I catch and then he scoops up his phone. It’s jostled all over and I see parts of the house. He’s on the staircase before he lifts it to his face again, and all the pleasure from minutes ago has drained away.

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