Page 20

I can’t tell if the mantra slamming around in my head in my brain freaking out or if it’s my brain, switching sides. I clamp my mouth shut so I don’t say it out loud. Just in case.
“I made coffee,” she says, dropping her hand, running the bristles of her brush absently along her thigh while she studies the canvas in front of her, trailing paint in its wake. It’s a habit of hers. Which is why she stopped wearing pants when she painted. Her bare legs are covered in swipes of bright color and I wonder, for just a second, what paint tastes like.
I’m losing my mind.
“Got some,” I say, holding my cup up as proof. “Thank you.”
“It’s just coffee, Patrick.” She turns around fully and smiles. That’s when I realize it’s my shirt. Her full breasts swaying slightly as she moves, their tips pushing against the thin fabric. She’s wearing my shirt.
“What do you think?” she says, stepping to the side to give me a look at the easel behind her and I try to look—I swear to Christ I do. But I can’t focus. Can’t think. All I see are vague shapes and colors. The same colors streaked across her thighs.
I’m not sure why—she takes my shit all the time—but for whatever reason, seeing her in my shirt right now and nothing else, except paint and panties, is nearly the death of me. It takes every ounce of restraint I have to keep my gaze trained on her face. I lift the coffee to my mouth and take a drink, not sure I’ll be able to swallow it but God must love me because I manage it without choking. “It’s good,” I tell her, my throat sounds like it’s being dragged through gravel. “I’m taking a shower.” The second I hear it, I’m sure she does too. The need I have for her. The itch I’ve never scratched. The craving I keep denying.
“Alright,” she says turning her back on me. “Save me some hot water. I have to get ready for work soon.”
I know the perfect way to save time and hot water.
The thought forms in my head, tries to push itself out of my mouth but as usual, I lock it down. She’s your roommate. Your best friend. You think she’d be standing there in her underwear if she thought of you that way?
“Don’t I always?” I say, because that’s who I am. The nice Gilroy. Not the serious one—the control freak who doesn’t know how to smile and had his entire life planned before he was old enough to drink and certainly not the one who runs around sticking his dick in anything with a pulse. I’m Patrick Gilroy. Thoughtful. Considerate. Dependable.
Mr. Nice Guy. That’s me.
Eleven
Patrick
I give in.
Stepping under the warm spray of water, I tell myself it’s not a big deal. Masturbation is a normal human function. I’m a guy for fuck’s sake—it’s practically a behavioral requirement. We eat. We sleep. We jerk off. That’s what we do.
“Okay, asshole,” I say quietly, picking up the bottle of conditioner—Cari’s—the one that smells like gardenias, and squirt some into my hand. “You win.”
I feel like I’m fucking twelve, jerking it in my parent’s shower, hoping like hell my mom doesn’t walk in. I feel pathetic and kinda sad but soon, I’m too worked up to care. Leaning under the showerhead, water beating between my shoulder blades, I brace a hand against the wall in front of me while the other one tightens around my cock, pumping up and down along its swollen length. I think about ripping her panties off. Her paint splattered legs wrapped around my hips. Dragging my shirt over her head so I can see her perfect tits bounce when ram my cock into her wet pussy, so deep my balls are pressed against her ass.
“Cari…” as soon as I say it, I force her out of my mind. I try thinking about someone else. Anyone but Cari. If anything, just to prove to myself that I can. That it’s not her I want. It’s the tits and ass she keeps parading in front of me like a goddamned naked marching band. It’s not her. It’s not. But my cock is calling me a liar because without the image of her in my head, I can’t tip myself over the edge, no matter what my hand is doing.
That’s when the bathroom door swings open.
Why didn’t I lock the fucking door? I always lock the door.
“Patrick?”
That’s the last rational thought I have before I hear her voice, practically in my ear, and I come, the orgasm barreling down on me so fast and hard I can’t stop it. Can’t stay quiet. “Fuuuck,” I groan, hot spurts of semen hitting the shower wall in front of me. Cari is standing inches away, nothing more than a shower curtain between us and I’m coming all over the place because she said my name.
Is it possible to drown yourself in the shower?
“Your phone—”
“Get out, Cari,” I say, my hand still clamped around my dick while it jerks and twitches with its release. I can see her standing there, the shadowy outline of her on the other side of the curtain, not moving. I squeeze my eyes shut and shout. “Get the fuck out.”
She moves fast toward the door, mumbling something that sounds like sorry, making me feel like a total asshole. Like it’s her fault I’m a sexual deviant.
I wait until I hear the door close behind her before I turn of water off.
Go after her.
The voice in my head sounds a hell of a lot like Conner which makes it easy to ignore. Conner is the last person I’m going to take advice from when it comes to Cari.
Stepping out of the shower, I grab my towel and give myself a quick rubdown. I came so hard my ears are ringing and my dick is still at half-mast, wanting more. Ignoring it, I tie the towel around my waist. My phone is on the bathroom counter and I pick it up. I don’t remember bringing it into the bathroom with me. I open the door. I can hear her moving around the kitchen. Five missed calls from Declan. That’s why she came into the bathroom. Because my phone was going ape shit and she was tired of listening to it.
My room is directly across from the bathroom but I’m having a hard time forcing myself through the doorway.
Stop being a little bitch. So, she caught you jerking it—who gives a fuck? What you should’ve done is pull back the shower curtain and ask her for help.
I dial my voicemail and wedge the phone against my ear so I can duck as quickly as possible across the hall. In my bedroom, I shut the door firmly behind me and this time I lock it. The first message from Declan is to tell me that our client meeting’s been moved to noon. The other four were to tell me the same thing, four more times. If at all possible, Dec is even more tightly wound than I am.
My three-hour window just became a five-hour wasteland. I flop back on my bed. Listening to her move around the apartment, getting ready for work. I feel like I should apologize to her but I don’t. How would I even do that? Sorry I jerked off with your hair products and yelled at you while coming. My bad. That’s a boatload of nope.
Staring at the ceiling, I wait for Cari to leave.