It’s wrong. It’s so fucking wrong to let images of Fallon filter through my mind. I should text Aven and see if he feels like having a mutual jerk-off session. I should lose myself in the memory of any of the scorching sexual encounters I’ve had over the past few years.
I should, but I don’t.
When I hit record, the only door my wild imagination opens is the one that leads to Fallon. She’s tangled up in my sheets, her pale blonde hair spread across my pillow. I crawl in beside her, loving the way her eyes roam over my body.
(And yeah, I know it’s never going to happen, but it’s my fantasy, dammit.)
The erotic reel in my mind shows Fallon reaching for me, but I’m faster, so the palms of my hands reach her shoulders before her fingers can wrap their way around my cock. With both gentleness and heat, I ease her body back down onto the bed so she’s lying flat while I’m on my side, pressed up against her. It’s the best damn view, even if it is only in my imagination. Her eyes are round, and her lips are parted. Those tits I need to fuck are mere inches from my mouth, and my right hand drapes lazily over her narrowed waist until she tugs it down so it hovers just above her pussy. My cock twitches—both in the scene running through my mind and the scene playing out for the camera on the tripod at the foot of my bed.
I smile as I bring my fist to my mouth, extend my thumb upward, and bring my hand down.
Fallon rolls those pretty blue eyes at my sign forpatience.
She doesn’t have it, and neither do I. We can pretend, though.
Letting my hand wander everywhere but her pretty pussy, I bend my head to lave a hot, wet kiss on her nipple. I feel the shudder as it caresses her body, and fuck, I’m just getting started. I want to taste every inch of this woman, and her breasts are the perfect place to begin. In my mind’s eye, I suck and nip, and kiss, not caring how much noise I’m making or about the fact that I’m fucking salivating over her. It can’t be helped, just like the pre-come that’s leaking from my dick.
A quick glance at my phone screen shows me I look just as hungry as I am. My face is out of the frame, but my bare chest glistens with sweat as my corded forearm flexes with every stroke. I switch between screens in my mind, volleying back and forth between visions of Fallon’s luscious body writhing under the attention of my lips, fingers, and tongue and the erotic picture of my own hand gripping my rock-hard cock. Swirling the tip of my thumb over the swollen head, I draw out more pre-come, loving the soft slick feel of it as I rub myself again and again.
“Fuck,” I mutter, unable to keep the word from falling off my lips. “Your tits taste so good. I need more.”
Back in fantasy land, I’m reaching between Fallon’s trembling thighs and slipping two fingers inside her. She gasps, thrusting her hips forward. She wants more of my touch. She fucking needs it, and she’ll get it.
But not yet.
Sliding my fingers out of her, I lift them to my lips and suck them greedily into my mouth. My eyes catch on thecamera, making me realize I let my chin dip into the frame while I was so distracted by the porno playing in my mind.
I’m still jacking myself, still moaning, and my hand hasn’t left my dick. But the camera staring back at me shows my pouting lower lip.
Fuck it. I’ll cut it.
That issue resolved, I lose myself fully in the fantasy. My eyes shutter closed because this moment, imaginary though it fucking is, is too intimate to be shared with the masses.
I picture Fallon shifting, her body moving over mine as she straddles me. What little patience she has is spent, and she fucking knows I’ll stay up all night just to please her, so she’s primed and fucking ready for orgasm number one.
She’s settled across my hips, my dick standing at attention at the entrance of her pussy. Before I suit up and thrust inside her, though, I’m going to make her come so damn hard. In reality, I’m stroking myself with a firm grip, my thumb gliding over the swollen head of my cock after every upstroke. But in my mind, that same thumb is parting her folds and covering her clit. I rub firm, tight circles over the bud again and again. Her legs are shaking, and mine are, too. Her head thrashes from side to side and somehow I know that’s a sign that she’s close.
I don’t change a goddamn thing. I’m chasing her orgasm as much as I’m chasing my own. My balls tighten and, in my lust-fogged brain, her lips part. I brace myself for the crashing waves of my climax to take over.
There’s a crash, but it’s not my ecstasy.
It’s loud and sharp.
Shit.So much for me being the only one home.
At first, I pause, thinking maybe Liza “accidentally” dropped Blue’s VitaBlend mixer, the one he’s always leaving dirty in the sink.
Or maybe Hazel, his fancy-ass cat, got herself stuck somewhere.
But then there’s a bang and a bump, and about half a dozen shouts of “Fuck you!”
What the hell?
Resigned to the fact that an orgasm isn’t in my immediate future, I stop recording, grab my phone, and throw on a pair of sweats. I learned my lesson with all that damn glitter.
I fly down the stairs to see Mickey and Wagner squaring off in the kitchen, the center island the only thing keeping them from tearing into each other. I notice Mickey’s white-knuckled grip on the marble, like he’s doing his best to calm down. But that’s a tall order, especially because Dutton’s not holding himself back. If anything, he’s poking the damn bear.
There’s a pile of porcelain shards on the tile floor and based on the apples and bananas strewn on the floor, it’s safe to say somebody knocked over the big-ass fruit bowl. That accounts for the crash I heard.
