Page 79 of Choosing a Forever
I don’t necessarilywantto corrupt Tal, but Idowant to give him the overwhelming pleasure no one else has.
You can’t even admit out loud you’ve got real feelings for him, don’t complicate things, Mackenzie.
“Mack? Are you good? You kind of zoned out.” Tal’s voice brings me back to the present, and it’s then I realize I’m still holding his sandwich.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good.” I set the plate on the counter and slide it towards one of the stools. “Eat your sandwich. I’ll go grab my laptop so I can work up here.”
Tal’s eyes roam my face for a second before he limps over to the stool and sits down. He picks up the sandwich and takes a bite, letting out a groan of appreciation, and my nipples harden.
Thank fuck I’m wearing a bra.
“This is really good. Thank you for making it for me.” He takes another bite.
“No problem,” I squeak. “I’ll be right back.”
Before he can say anything, I rush downstairs. My eyes snag again on the books on the couch, the ones with the tabs marking scenes that make my blood heat. That’s the only kind of annotation I do. If the spice is enough to make me need a break, it gets a tab.
The clothes I’m wearing are making me too hot—at least that’s what I’m telling myself. I duck into our roomto change, shucking off my pants and shirt. Before I toss my shirt into my laundry basket, something in Tal’s basket catches my eye.
These were the sweats he put on this morning.
Don’t. It’s none of your business.
Ignoring the logical voice in my head, I pick them up and notice the wet patch on the front.
Where I imagine the head of his dick would sit.
Oh god, he got so aroused he soiled his pants.
A helpless, needy sound expels from my throat before I can stop it, and I toss the pants back in the laundry so I don’t do something creepy and inappropriate like smell the wet patch.
I quickly pull on leggings and an oversized T-shirt then grab my laptop and make my way back upstairs.
I hope I can keep my body in check.
I could not keep it in check.
Everything was fine, I made it through the rest of my workday and dinner with no salacious thoughts of my fake husband.
But then we went downstairs to get ready for bed, and he hopped in the shower, and now my mind is running away with itself.
My clit is pulsing and begging to be touched as I imagine him in there.
Is he touching himself?
I’m straining my ears, trying to hear something, but the bed’s a bit too far away.
I feel like a lunatic, creeping to the bathroom door and gently pushing my ear against it.
But I don’t hear anything other than the steady drumming of the water hitting the tiles and the—
“Mack.”
I jump back as if I’ve been caught, but the door is still closed, and the shower is still on.
I press my ear against the wood harder.
“P-please, Firefly. Want you to touch me,”Tal whimpers. The use of my nickname makes my core clench around nothing, emphasizing how empty I feel.
