Page 19

Six months later...
Ten
Patrick
My alarm goes off and I roll over, silencing it almost immediately. It’s loud and I don’t want to wake Cari.
Cari.
I groan, my hand going directly to my cock. As usual, it’s rock hard, popping the mother of all tents in my flannel pants. It’s not just morning wood either. This is a full-on, Stage 5, roommate-induced hard-on. I roll over onto my stomach and try to smother it but the added friction just makes it worse. “Shit.” I groan into my pillow. I can’t deal with this right now.
I think about masturbating. These days, I’m doing it all the time. In bed when I know she’s sleeping in her room. In the shower. In the living room when she’s in the shower. The only place I haven’t done it is in her room when she’s not here because there’s horny and then there’s creepy and even though I’m dancing around that line, I haven’t crossed it.
Not yet anyway.
Whatever. Jerking off isn’t going to take care of the problem for long. In the long run, it isn’t going to do anything but make my dick angry because it wants the real fucking thing and it knows the real thing is right down the hall.
I know it’s useless, but I give it a try anyway, squeezing the head of my cock to catch the drops of the pre-cum beading on its tip before sliding my hand down the length of my shaft, working it in my fist until I’m panting, my free hand twisted in the bedsheet.
I don’t know what I expected when I opened my big, fat mouth and offered her a place to live. I sure as fuck didn’t expect our living arrangement to be clothing optional.
It’s like I’m living at Sigma Pi all over again.
I can’t close my eyes without seeing her. Walking around in the most pathetic excuse for a robe I’ve ever seen. Curled up on the couch next to me in a pair of my boxers, making me wonder if she’s wearing panties underneath. Naked, her reflection thrown back at me by the mirror in the living room, hung at the perfect angle from her bedroom.
“Get a grip, perv,” I mutter. She’s not giving you a free peep show. She’s your friend and this is her home. You’re the problem—not her.
Because I’m obviously some sort of masochist, I let go of my cock without finishing the job. My dick jerks in protest but I ignore it. No, I can’t close my eyes, so I stare at the ceiling, cock twitching, until I get myself under some semblance of control.
These days, control is a tenuous thing.
Finally, I’m able to sit up without poking myself in the eye. Elbows braced on my knees, head hanging—my cock staring me in the face. Making me wonder if I should seek medical help. I mean, seriously—at what point does jerking-off become compulsive?
“Fuck me,” I groan, standing up and glancing at the clock. It’s 5AM. My meeting with Declan and a pair of potential clients isn’t until ten. I consider going back to bed but I know what I’ll end up doing if I fall into that trap. So, instead, I do what I do.
I run.
Ninety minutes and ten miles later, I let myself back into our apartment as quietly as possible. Cari doesn’t have to be at work until 9:30 and she likes her sleep. So, imagine my surprise when the scent of fresh coffee hits me as soon as I open the front door. Reaching for the bottom of my sweatshirt, I yank it over my head and drop it in the dirty clothes basket by the door. Tomorrow is laundry day and I keep it there so Cari can sneak a few things in while she thinks I’m not looking. She hates doing laundry and it’s not like I’m going to tell her to stop.
I head to the kitchen and sure enough, there’s coffee. Thinking that Cari must’ve prepped the coffee pot and set the timer last night, I say a silent prayer of thanks and grab a mug from the cabinet and pour myself a cup. It’s not even 7AM. Plenty of time to shower and go over my blueprints before I have to leave.
Turning, I step back into the hall, my gaze pulled in the direction of Cari’s room, caddy corner from the kitchen. I thought she’d be sleeping, the sun is barely up for fuck’s sake, but she’s not and the sight of her makes me bobble my coffee cup, hot liquid spilling over its rim, scalding the back of my hand.
She’s painting. Carmel colored hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot, the hem of a worn T-shirt skimming the tops of her thighs, exposing bare, mile-long legs. Leaning close to her easel, she makes careful movements with a fine tipped brush. That’s not what I’m looking at though. I’m looking at the way her perfectly formed ass cheeks peek out at me from a pair of tiny blue boy shorts that are definitely not doing their goddamn job. You’d think a ten-mile beating would kill the monster in my pants, but no. It’s alive and breathing and as hard as ever.
Move. Get the fuck out of here. Don’t get caught letching out on your best friend, you psycho. Go.
MOVE YOUR ASS, FUCKFACE!
My brain is screaming at me, urging me to do the smart thing. The right thing. My dick, however, has different ideas. Ideas that involve picking her up and throwing her on the bed and ripping her panties off so I can throw her legs over my shoulders and burying my face in her pussy, eating her out until she screaming my name and coming all over my face.
“Hey, you’re back.”
I look up from her ass to find her looking at me over her shoulder. “Yeah.” Real smooth, Patrick. Real fucking smooth. “What are you doing?” Her door is open only halfway and I take a minute step to the left, trying to hide my traitorous hard-on in its shadow.
She laughs and wiggles her paint brush at me. “Working on my novel.”
Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.