Page 4 of Risk
Isn’t that the truth. “Well, I am today.”
“And I would have known if you at least used a light!”
Is she for real? “There’s enough sun streaming in from the windows to not warrant a light on.”
She snaps her fingers. “Steam.” The woman has the nerve to step in closer to me. “There should have been steam from your hot shower and there wasn’t. How could I have known you were in the shower when there’s no steam?”
“I don’t take hot showers.”
Her eyes widen. “Only psychopaths take cold ones.”
Or sexually frustrated businessmen. “I’m not a psychopath.”
“I bet that’s what all psychopaths say.” Her eyes are smiling while she says this and I have no idea how she managed to defuse a very awkward situation, but I’m feeling less and less frustrated by it now.
“Well.” Keeping the towel over my junk to cover it, I flash her a disarming grin. “I’ll leave you to it in here.” Walking backwards, I enter my bedroom and shut the door.
Fuck me running! What am I going to do now? My mind’s already going into damage control. I can’t help it. I’m hard-wired to think of every angle something can backfire and taint my name.
Is she going to report me to her company for sexual harassment? How’s that going to look when it gets out? I can see the headlines now: “Big Tech Mason Finch Exposes Himself to Innocent House Cleaner.”
My family will have a collective coronary and that’s a headache I’m not in the mood to get right now.
Except she doesn’t strike me as someone who would run to tell her superiors about this incident. In fact, the way she handled this was far better than what I would have been able to do if the tables were turned.
It was just an unfortunate timing issue. A big, weird, embarrassing accident.
But hard-ons don’t happen by mistake. I was turned on looking at her. And I wanted her to see it. Holding her in my arms when I caught her only made it worse.
Swiping a hand over my mouth, I stare at my carefully laid out suit on the bed. I feel bad being here, startling her the way I did. Wait a minute. Why do I feel like I’m trespassing on her territory when it’s my goddamn condo?
Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. What happened, happened, and now it’s done. I just have to focus on getting out of here before I do something stupid like ask for her number.
God, my dick won’t deflate. I blame the twerking. I’m a sucker for woman with confidence and the one in my bathroom right now has it in spades. Palming my hard-on, I know if I don’t blow off some steam, I’m going to choke at the meeting I have at eleven o’clock and that can’t happen. I’m so close to getting all I want, and this little diversion can’t slow me down.
Glancing back at the door separating me and that sexpot, I debate on locking it. But my naughty side wants to play and, honestly, I doubt she’ll barge in on me again.
No matter how much I want her to watch.
Spitting in my palm, I slide my hand over the hard length of my cock and close my eyes. The only image that appears is of that cleaning woman. Her ass. Her hips. The way she dances.
I latch onto the fact that she had whiskers and fill in the gaps of what she’d look like, dressed as a cat with ears and a long-tailed butt plug. My strokes speed up. What would she look like cleaning my house naked? The image of her on all fours, scrubbing my kitchen floors, her tits swaying, ass up in the air with her bare feet tucked under her, makes me groan.
I’d approach from behind, squat down and eat her pussy in that position. I’d eat her ass too. Fuck, I’d devour every bit of her sweet body I could get my tongue on and then drive my cock inside her swollen cunt. Make her take every inch of me until her pussy stretches around my girth. Then I’d have her beg me to move my hips and fuck her like an animal.
My orgasm builds, and builds, and builds until I can’t hold it back anymore. The noises I make when I come aren’t loud. But they aren’t quiet either. Can she hear me? I watch myself in the mirror, still jerking off until my dick is spent, and ignore the hollowness in my chest because pleasuring myself alone all the time is getting old.
Dragging my towel across the carpet to wipe up the mess I just made, I clean up and get dressed in dead silence.
Before I set out, I lean against the bathroom door and listen. Water’s running, so I assume she’s working on my sinks. Knocking once, I open it, prepared to say something ordinary and aloof, so I can read her mood before I worry about what she’ll say about all this later. “Hey, I just wanted to—”
“Please don’t report me,” she says with bright yellow gloves on. Holding the toilet brush over the bowl, she looks at me with flushed cheeks. “I don’t want to lose this house.”
What? “You didn’t do anything wrong. Why would I report you?” The fumes from bleach and lemon-scented cleaners make my eyes water the closer I get to her. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m so sorry I barged in on you earlier. I honestly didn’t know you were here.”
Guilt ripples down my chest. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me. I should have rescheduled you. Or at least let you know I was here beforehand. I forgot you were coming. I’ve got a lot going on and hadn’t realized what day it was.”