I feel like such a shitty best friend when I do.
But I’m fucking weak, and she’s powerful, and I’m horny as hell. When I step into the shower and wrap my hand around my hard cock, it’s her face in my fantasies.
I squeeze, letting the hot water cascade down my body, the soap allowing my strokes to glide smoothly up and down my shaft. I rest my back on the shower wall and slide my other hand down my torso, pressing on my abs.
I try to think about someone else.
Someone her polar opposite.
Someone who doesn’t have blonde hair, blue eyes, curves for days, and the best fucking dimple in the whole damn world. Megan Fox. Ciara. Jessica Alba. Mother fucking Beyonce. After two, three strokes, a swipe of my palm over the swollen head of my dick, they all change into the one woman who owns me.
Ivy Jean Rivenbark.
Fuuuck.
In my head, I don’t touch her. I never let it go that far. If I said what I really wanted to say, or put my hands on her how I craved, I couldn’t come back from that. It would be the ultimate high. I’d never leave my fantasies.
Instead, I watch her.
I imagine her touching herself. Her delicate
fingers pinch her nipples, and she whimpers. Her breasts are full and heavy, her nipples the same soft pink as her plump smile. My mouth waters. I want my lips on them. I want to suck those nipples into my mouth and lave them with my tongue. Bite them lightly. Mark up her perfect skin with my teeth.
But I can’t.
So, I close my eyes tighter and watch as she massages and tweaks and writhes.
I squeeze my cock harder. Stroke it faster. A low groan escapes me, swallowed up by the steam.
Her small hands slide into black lace panties. She rubs her clit, swollen bottom lip between her teeth, desperate, needy blue eyes on me. I want to replace her fingers with mine, glide them through the slick folds of her pussy and press them inside. I want to feel her contract around me. I want to be the one to make her come.
Her hand moves underneath the lace of her panties. Her wrist bends slightly, fucking herself with her fingers. Her hips buck, her other hand massaging her breasts, and her eyes never leave me. I hold back from commanding her how I want, from urging her on. I clamp my mouth shut, both in reality and in my fantasy, and let her do as she pleases.
Fuck, what I wouldn’t do to taste her. To tell her all the dirty things I want to do to her. To have her hips moving like that against my face.
I flip around and brace myself on my forearm, drop my chin to my chest, and jerk my dick with her moans in my ears.
My balls tighten, my abs contract, and when I spray my release onto the shower wall, it’s Ivy’s name on my lips.
* * *
The next morning, I’m up with the sun.
So far, Sundays have been my favorite training days. The modified marathon training schedule I’ve been working through has me set so every Sunday, for the last seven weeks, has been six miles at an easy pace. Honestly, it’s been therapeutic, and when I spend my Saturday nights with Ivy, it’s necessary. I need a fucking outlet. With the right playlist, I could do this session in my sleep.
I step out of my apartment, take a deep breath in, and drop to do a few more stretches.
Six a.m. is my sweet spot. I’ve always been a morning person. I’m that crazy fucker who likes eight a.ms on my class schedule every day. Ivy likes to joke that my affinity for mornings is why I’m getting my degree in education. I’m not going to lie, that actually went into my decision but being a teacher has always been end game.
Ma and Pop would have been overjoyed if I shared their love for law, but that just isn’t for me. Ivy has the brain for that shit; I like lesson plans about dates and facts and cause and effect timelines. I like analyzing varying perspectives about the past to learn about the present, and I like knowing that I could be making a difference in the lives of my students.
Luckily for me, my parents aren’t a bunch of controlling assholes who would try to force me into taking over their company or some other antiquated bullshit. They own a general practice law firm, not some Fortune 500 real estate investment banker empire or whatever. They’re happy I found something I’m passionate about, even if that something means likely enduring piss-poor pay and governmental disrespect.
But I digress.
Finishing my quad and calf stretches, I pop in my earbuds and push play on my Sunday Marathon Playlist. Then, I slide my phone into my pocket, set the timer on my watch, and start my training session. I always do the first two blocks at a brisk walk before picking up into the guided run of the day.
Sundays—six miles at an easy pace. And I can breathe properly again.