“I said how long do you want me to nuke these for?” An irritated voice breaks through my internal pep talk.
“And I thought you said you weren’t five and knew how to use one,” I snap.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t care if the shells are burnt to a crisp but I thought you might. Excuse me for trying to be thoughtful.” She slams the microwave door shut and jabs the touchscreen as if it’s my eyes she’s poking out. My dick hardens even more.
I turn off the burner. “I’ll be back,” I grind out between clenched teeth before walking down the hall and into the first bathroom that I come across. I slam the door shut, shove my sweatpants down and grab my dick.
“It’s the post-game adrenaline,” I repeat to myself. The image in the mirror mocks me. Post-game adrenaline my ass. I’ve never, in all my games, ever had a hard-on due to some stupid fucking win and I’ve been a champion ever since I strapped on the pads during pee-wee football. Winning is second nature to me. There’s a room in the monstrosity across the walkway that is full of my trophies and awards.
My dick throbs angrily in my hand. Whatever it is, I just need to get rid of it. I’ll jack off and once I’ve climaxed, my body will be back to normal. I use the precum on my head and spread it down the shaft and get to work. My eyes drift shut and a girl appears in front of me. A girl with tangled brown hair, hazel eyes, a fat lower lip, and a set of tits that make my balls tighten up. Fuck. I snap my eyes open and try to get rid of the image. I don’t need to tie my orgasms to that girl out there. I try to bring up another image—any image—but my mind drifts back to her and the way she bites on her upper lip when she’s nervous and the way she straightens her shoulders when she decides to be brave and the smart-ass way she keeps talking back to me as if she’s the one who lives in this carriage house and drives the Maserati. Fuck me.
My hand works harder, jerks faster. I give in. She’s a hot piece of ass. Why not use her in my head? Why not let my fantasies run wild? I’m not going to act on them. I’m not going to touch her. Women have no place in my life. I’ve dreams I’ve got to accomplish and a woman would stand in my way. I may want her, but I don’t need her I tell myself, but the statement feels hollow when I come all over my hand with the image of her standing at my window, wearing my jersey fixed in my head.
Chapter 4
Mallory
“What were you doing?” I ask, leaning up against the far wall as Deuce goes back to making tacos when he returns a few minutes later. I know exactly what he’s been doing but I want to give him a hard time about it. He left the kitchen and went into the bathroom in a hurry. I don’t know why but I made a snap decision to follow him. I kept my footsteps light until I reached the door that he’d shut in a hurry. I put my ear up to the door to see if I could hear what was happening on the other side. I stood listening to his breathing pick up and the low groans that were coming out of him. I’m pretty sure he was masturbating behind that door. He let out one final groan and that was my cue to high-tail in back to the kitchen before I got caught.
My heart races, wondering if it was me that had him so worked up that he had to practically run from the kitchen to get himself off. Or he could be a sex addict. My mother once dated one of those. Well, she told me he was but sometimes I wonder if she is the real addict. His cheeks are still a little rose colored when he returns, which I’m guessing is from the orgasm he just gave himself. The thought of him jerking himself in the bathroom shouldn’t have me turned on but it does.
“Can you get the shells out of the microwave?”
I don’t think he’s asking. I’m not sure the man asks anyone to do anything. He snaps at people and expects them to jump. It’s pretty clear that his antics usually work. I can see by the way he reacts to me when I refuse to do something he told me to do. He definitely isn’t used to it. He also isn’t answering my question. He’s avoiding it by being his usual charming self.