Eye Candy

“You know how I feel about . . . freshness.”

If there’s a way to kill a mood, it’s referencing freshness. I used to find the pre-sex-shower ritual adorable. He’d be all wet and smelling fantastic. I’d join him in bed when I was done cleaning up. There would be a very sexy inspection. At least it used to be.

I heave a sigh, pull my strap back in place, and grab my robe from the floor.

“Are you going to shower?”

How can a man be so damn oblivious? “No, Armstrong, I’m not going to shower.”

“I thought we were going to have sex.”

“Apparently I’m not fresh enough.”

“What about a blow job?”

I whirl around. “Seriously?”

“I’m hard now.” He gestures to his lap.

“I guess you’ll have to figure out what to do with that then, because I’m going to be busy solving my own damn problems.” I stalk down the hall to his bedroom and root through my overnight bag. It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. My travel vibrator. This sweet baby has gotten me through a few unsatisfying nights in the past few months. Now it’s going to take care of my morning problem, too, alone, in the bathroom.

*

I grab my earbuds and my phone and rush across the hall, through the spare bedroom, and into the private bathroom. Locking the door, I turn on the fan and strip out of my sheath. The mirror reflects my pink cheeks and my heaving chest. My boobs are nice. They’re not huge, but they’re certainly not small. They’re a very reasonable, ample C cup.

I slap my fake penis on the vanity, along with my phone and earbuds and grab the edge of the counter, trying to calm down. I’m really worked up, and not just in a clit-throbbing kind of way. The ability to come may very well be a challenge based on my level of irritation. But I’m going to try. Forget the shower-before-sex rule. Is it too much to ask for a little spontaneity?

I turn on the shower, not because I’m planning to get fresh for Armstrong, but to drown out the sound of my vibrator and hopefully the sound of my orgasm. I slip my fingers between my legs. I’m barely even wet. Which makes sense, because I’m more angry than I am turned on. My clit is almost as angry as the rest of me.

Snatching my plastic dick from the vanity, I decide the showerhead is going to be my friend. Sliding the glass door open, I’m mindful not to be too rough, since shattering it won’t help my situation, even if the destruction will make me feel good.

I am rough with the removable showerhead, though. Making sure the water isn’t too hot, I lift it from its resting place and lower it between my thighs, adjusting the stream so it pulses against my clit. The warm, direct pressure makes my eyes roll up. It’s almost like being licked, but better, more consistent.

Leaning against the tile I let the rhythmic pressure do its job. If I had my clit sucker this would be over in two minutes. My agitation is going to make this take longer, but that’s fine, I have time. Plenty of it.

Reaching for my vibrator—waterproof of course—I turn it on and slide the thick, warm plastic inside me. I don’t imagine that it’s Armstrong fucking me, because I’m too pissed off at him for that to help me get where I need to go, which is the land of Orgasmia.

The vibrations inside, combined with the warm pulse against my clit, cause my knees to buckle. “Fuck. Yes.” It echoes in the enclosed space, louder than I mean it to. But, God, it feels good. So good.

A knock at the bathroom door dulls the tingle spreading from the center of my body outward. “Amalie?”

I close my eyes tight and press the showerhead harder against my clit. Lowering myself to the floor of the tub I rock on the vibrator. And I moan.

“Darling? Are you crying?” Armstrong’s voice rises at the end with panic. “I’m sorry—” The doorknob rattles. “Why is this locked?”

I bite my bottom lip, picturing the confused expression on his face. His hard-on tenting his pajama pants. It makes me smile and brings me closer to the orgasm I’m chasing down. I groan as sensation builds in waves, water pulsing over my clit, streaming down my legs, and the buzz of the vibrator makes a heavy, tinny sound against the tub.

“What is that? Is that the pipes? Darling, are you okay?” The door continues to rattle.

I’m so close. So, so close. And knowing he’s on the other side of the door, unable to get to me, confused and unsatisfied, helps push me to the edge and hold me there. I move the showerhead a few millimeters to the right. “That’s it. Fuck me.”

I’m so engrossed in the pleasure that I fail to notice the silence on the other side of the door. The orgasm hits me, clit throbbing, muscles contracting hard, waves of satisfaction sweeping through me, draining out my anger, replacing it with bliss. I chant the words fuck and oh god and yes over and over again.

A loud click is followed by an even louder bang as the door slams open. Armstrong stands at the threshold, one hand on the jamb, his expression morphing from panic to confusion to disbelief. “What’re you doing?”

The reflection in the mirror across the room draws my gaze away from his. His toned back flexes as his arm lifts, fingers running hard through his hair. Armstrong is a very attractive man. His features are regal, his body is toned, though not heavily muscled. He’s taken his shirt off, so I watch the sinew pull and tighten with his movements.

I look beyond him, to my own cloudy reflection. My expression is exactly the opposite of his, heavy lids and parted lips, satiety clear on my face. On my knees, legs spread with the showerhead still pressed firm against my pulsing clit. I drop it and turn off the faucet.

Rising up on my knees, I ease the vibrator out; the whirring grows louder, and then echoes through the room as I lose my grip and it drops into the tub, bumping its way across to the drain.

“Are you masturbating?” His incredulity is only offset by the lump in his pajama pants.

“Not anymore.” I grab the bar and pull myself up. The bottom of the tub isn’t very nice to my knees, which are a little on the wobbly side. But at least that took the edge off. I’m slightly less angry now.

“You were masturbating.” He blinks several times. It’s very strobe-like.

I don’t know why he’s so surprised. “Don’t you masturbate?”

His brow pulls down, causing a crease to form between them. I wonder if he knows that happens and whether it will make him want the Botox injections his mother is so fond of.

He lowers his hand to his crotch and strokes his erection through the fabric. “Well, of course, on the days I don’t see you, I take care of myself, when it’s necessary.”