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.
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.