Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
The wish to come burns through me just thinking about how she would peer at me, wide-eyed and needy. I stroke my cock faster, my tugs almost violent. A vibration rumbles up my chest. It is a half-groan slash half-moan that proves without doubt that I’m so hard it hurts.
After flattening my back against the tiled wall, needing its sturdiness to hold me up, I keep my eyes peeled on the bathroom door. I swear the shadow under the lip wasn’t there seconds ago. The hallway’s bulb blew weeks ago, and Macy’s bedroom light was switched off when I returned home from my run, but now small parcels of light slot on each side of a foot-like shadow.
Confident it is Macy’s shadow, I work my dick harder, faster, sliding it in and out of my hand at a steady but tormenting pace. I’m close, so close, that the faintest whiff of a familiar scent shunts me over the line. I come with a moan, Macy’s name shooting from my throat as quickly as strings of cum shoot from my dick.
After waiting for my thighs to stop shaking enough that I’m confident neither Macy nor I will slip, I switch off the faucet and step out of the shower. As I sling a towel low on my hips, I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror. I look like hell. My eyes are bloodshot, stubble shadows my jaw, and my shoulders are tense.
I’m meant to be the golden boy of the bureau, the agent who always does the right thing.
Tonight, I feel like a fraud.
Tossing the towel aside, I pull on a pair of sweats and run my fingers through my hair. I know the perfect way to put some distance between myself and a temptation I’d give anything not to steer toward a fiery wreck.
I’ll work on Cameron’s case, burn off some of the guilt on my chest, and maybe, just maybe, find some clarity.
As I reach for Cameron’s file, where Macy left it hours ago, the soft creak of Macy’s bedroom door hinges trickles into the living room. While braced, it’s silent, but when left to its own devices, it’s as loud as the building’s pipes.
I freeze when Macy’s shadow moves toward the living room instead of the bathroom, my heart in my throat. We’ve tiptoed around situations like this previously, but not right after I blew my load while imagining her sultry face.
Macy enters the living room. Her hair is tousled, and her eyes appear wide and uncertain. The oversized shirt she’s wearing as sleepwear skims her luscious thighs. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are fleeting. She won’t make eye contact with me. She stares at the floor as if it holds all the answers to our inability to deny the tension bristling between us this time around, and I hate how often her lower lip rolls between her teeth.
“Grayson.” Her voice is barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”
I balk, caught off guard by the shame in her voice. “For what?”
She fidgets, her fingers twisting in her shirt. “For earlier.” Her eyes shift to the wall separating the living room from the bedroom. “I didn’t mean for you to hear any of that. You were supposed to be on a run.”
In two strides, I cross the room, stopping short of touching her. “You have nothing to be sorry about. Nothing at all.” I opened her door without knocking when I heard her moaning. If anyone deserves an apology, it is her. “I shouldn’t have—”
Her eyes cloud with shame, cutting me off. “I feel so stupid.” She swallows hard, her voice cracking. “I haven’t craved anything like… that for so long. Not since Kendall disappeared. But with hormones running rampant through my body and…”—she gives me a look that announces I am the catalyst of her issues—“it was like everything rushed back in at once, and I don’t know how to handle any of it.”
“I think you handled it pretty well, freckles.” I’m a fucking ass for making fun of her, but if I don’t ease her guilt with playfulness, I’ll use my tongue. “There are worse ways to burn off tension.”
Macy laughs nervously, then she flashes me a skeptical look. “Not all of us can go for a run.” She battles with herself for almost ten seconds before blurting out, “And from what I overheard earlier, sometimes even that isn’t always effective.”
So she did hear me?
The knowledge makes me hard, as if I hadn’t achieved release only minutes ago, and it adds to the tension cracking in the air.
Silence whistles between us as we instinctively draw nearer. It’s a fight not to brush my fingers down her heated cheeks before ensuring that she knows she’s not alone, that this is as hard on me as it is on her, but I hold back. I vowed to be a better man and not to exploit her vulnerability.