Joy Ride

Three minutes later, she stands at the door, hastily dressed, damp strands from her bun hitting her face. “Are you okay?”

I rub my hand across the back of my neck, not answering her question. “I ordered an Uber. I gave it an address I knew in SoHo. You’ll need to adjust it to yours. But it’s on my account.”

“Okay.” To say she seems hurt would be a gross understatement. She looks precisely like what she is—a woman being kicked out of a man’s pad. “Did I do something wrong?”

I grit my teeth, trying to rein in my annoyance. But it slithers up, fighting to break free. I clench my fists. “I can’t talk to you while you’re naked in the tub. Don’t you get that? That’s just fucking wrong. We work together. We can’t be this chummy. This whole night was a huge mistake.”

Her eyes widen, starting to fill with tears, but she draws a deep, shaky breath. “Message received.”

“I’ll walk you out,” I say, because I can’t be a total dick.

“That’s not necessary.” Her voice is hard again.

“I’m doing it anyway.”

She narrows her eyes and looks away, then yanks open my door. She walks two paces ahead and stabs the down button at the elevator. When it arrives, we ride in silence. We reach the lobby, and she says, “I can take it from here.”

I don’t listen to her. I walk her out the door to the curb and make sure she’s safely inside the white Honda.

She doesn’t say good-bye. I don’t either. I seethe as I head back upstairs.

I stalk down the hallway, so much fucking annoyance rolling off me that I swear I can smell it—the fumes of my own frustration.

I reach my place, and the second the door slams shut behind me, my belt is undone, my hand is in my briefs, and I grab my cock. My aching, throbbing, insistent cock.

I stroke hard, letting the back of my head hit the door, shutting my eyes. Roughly, with one desperate goal, I grip my shaft and I jack it.

I can’t take this. I can’t stand being this attracted to her.

Wanting to touch her.

Wanting to fuck her.

Wanting to kiss her.

Wanting to fucking get to know her. Most of all, I can’t stand that. How much I’m starting to like her, and I can’t like her. I just fucking can’t.

But I can’t walk around this hard. This aroused. This immensely turned on by everything she does.

She’s killing me, and she doesn’t even know it.

I groan as I wrap my fist tighter. I shuttle my palm up and down, rocking into it. My jeans slide down my hips, and the belt buckle smacks the door with every tug.

“Fuck,” I mutter as I jerk faster.

Tighter.

Rougher.

I’m fucking my fist, like the world is on fire. My body is on fire. Unholy pleasure sizzles under my skin as I fight for some goddamn relief.

Every muscle in me is tight. Tense. Wound the fuck up from her.

Her sweet hair in my nose.

Her face on my shoulder.

Her nudges, her looks, her smile, her tits. Her majestic, wonderful tits.

God, I want to tear off her clothes and slam her to the wall. I want to crush her lips with my mouth, taste her tongue, suck on her neck. Feast on those tits until I get down on my knees and bury my tongue in her pussy.

I burn. Everywhere. Lust rattles through my bones as I imagine that first taste. How wet she’d be. How sweet she’d taste. How dizzy it would make me to sink my face between her legs and eat her till she came all the fuck over my jaw.

I want to drive her to the brink of insanity, like she’s done to me. I want her crazy with desire, grabbing my hair, and moaning my name until she can’t stop.

I groan so loudly it’s criminal. The noises I make could wake the neighbors. I don’t give a shit. Lust surges down my spine, a warning shot. I’m close, so damn close, and I’m desperate.

I hate how I feel, but I fucking love how this feels, too. I have never needed a release more. Never.

My mind trips back to a few minutes ago. To the flash of that perfect nipple, tipped up, begging me to suck on it. That nipple called out to me. I wanted to bite it. Wanted to see how much of her breast fits in my mouth.

I want her to feel this same goddamn frustration.

With my other hand, I grip my balls hard, tugging as I jack my cock more roughly. Another drop of liquid beads at the head, and I spread it down my shaft, barely coating me. Who fucking cares. I don’t need lube or lotion for this.

Smack goes my belt buckle against the door.

Slap goes my hand on my dick.

Henley, Henley, Henley goes my brain.

I grunt like an animal, a fucking desperate man.

If there’s a God, Henley will be in her apartment any second, jamming her hand down her panties and fucking herself with her fingers.

And that’s it.

The flip switches as I think of her sweet, hot pussy. There’s no place I’d rather be than inside it. There’s no one I want but her.

My quads tighten. My muscles burn, and a shock of pleasure surges down my spine.

Seconds later, I’m there.

I come hard in my hand. It feels fucking amazing, like silver sparks raining from the sky.

But the pleasure ends far too quickly. It subsides in mere seconds, and I’m left with this empty, terrible want as I stand against my door, my belt undone, and my hand coated in my orgasm.

The trouble is I’m not sure she’s out of my system.

In fact, as I wash my hands, I peer behind me in the mirror’s reflection. The towels she used are neatly hung. The bubble bath lines the shelf. The tub is pristine.

She did everything she said a good girlfriend would do. It’s almost like she was never here at all. And as I brush my teeth, nearly chewing through a new brush, I can’t stop thinking about her.

I leave the bathroom and strip down to nothing, and she’s still in my head. When I get into bed, I wish she was stepping out of the bath, drying off, and wandering into my room.

With that in mind, I try again to get her out of my system. Lying on the white sheets, I picture her climbing over me, riding my face.

Then in the morning, as I shower, she’s on her knees taking my cock in her mouth, letting me fuck her lips.

Maybe, just maybe, she’s out of my system now.





21





Henley’s To-Do List



* * *



—Meet John to discuss strategy.



* * *



—Prep for appointment with lawyer.



* * *



—Find new smoothie mix that makes me not give a crap about Max, that jerk.



* * *



—Drink it up. It isn’t getting any easier building this Lambo with him.



* * *



—Practice my game face.



* * *



—Don’t let on the ice-age treatment bothers me.





22





I ring the buzzer of the walk-up on 18th Street, craning my neck to get a glimpse of the third floor.