16
Carson
I was a grade-A douche bag. No, I was worse than a douche bag. If being an asshole were an Olympic sport, I’d have more gold medals for being an asshole than Michael Phelps did for swimming.
What kind of man had an affair with his best friend’s wife? What kind of man tracked her down and pushed her to fuck him, even when she tried to stop him? Let’s be real, she didn’t try very hard, a nasty little voice in my head said.
That was true, it had been easy, too easy. But that wasn’t the point, it didn’t matter if she practically threw herself at me, I should have walked away.
It had started out as just sex—the best sex of my life—but now I found myself wanting to spend more time with her. Even though we’d been friends for years I realized there was a lot I didn’t know about Chloe. Now I wanted to know everything about her.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It was just supposed to be sex, nothing else. But I was falling for her. Hard. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to end up in love my best friend’s wife. What the fuck would I do then?
My dick stirred at the thought of Chloe. Fuck. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care. I was addicted to her—her soft skin, her touch, her taste, her smell, the way it felt to be buried inside her, and the way she screamed my name when she came.
I set my razor down, put both hands on the sink in front of me, and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like the kind of guy who ruined marriages. With blond hair and blue eyes, I looked innocent as fuck. I ran a hand through my hair and blew out a breath, then laughed when I remembered how she’d noticed my tic. Damn it, everything I did made me think of her.
We’d made plans for Thursday, but now that seemed too far away. I picked up my phone and texted her.
Me: What are you doing?
Chloe: Working.
Me: At 7:30 in the morning?
Chloe: Yes. I’ve basically got two jobs at the moment.
Me: What are you wearing?
Chloe: I’m at work.
Me: I’m not. I’m standing in my bathroom, naked and hard, thinking about you.
Chloe: What do you want me to do about it?
Me: Go in the bathroom, send me a picture.
Chloe: Not a chance in hell.
I imagined her sitting at her desk, giggling, as she refused to play along. That turned me on even more.
Me: Don’t worry, I don’t need a picture. The image of you naked on my kitchen table, legs spread wide, wet and ready for me is burned into my memory.
I ran a hand down my shaft as I imagined it. Chloe lying there on my table, hair tousled, biting her lip and rubbing her nipples. Fuck, I let out a groan as I moved my hand up and down.
Chloe: Are you trying to torture me?
Me: Is it working?
Chloe: I’m so wet right now. How am I supposed to work like this?
Me: Now you know how I feel. I can’t concentrate on anything because I’m constantly thinking about your perfect pussy and the things I want to do to it.
I stroked myself, while I waited for her reply, and watched my eyes grow dark in the mirror as I got closer and closer to the edge.
Chloe: Purple lace panties, that are now soaking wet thanks to you, a black bra, a navy blue sleeveless dress.
It took me a minute to realize she was finally answering my question about what she was wearing.
Chloe: It’s short enough that if I spread my legs under my desk I can touch myself.
I let out another moan, my strokes coming faster and harder now. I tried to text her back but my brain and my fingers weren’t currently working together.
Chloe: No one else is here yet. I could dip a finger inside. Touch myself just the way you like.
I had to grip the sink for balance as my legs started to tremble.
I imagined Chloe, legs spread as she fingered herself under her desk, murmuring my name as she made herself come. The image was enough to send me over the edge. I stroked harder and faster and groaned her name as I came.