I tugged down my jeans, kicking them to the side. Without another word between us, I sank my cock into her heat all the way to the hilt. I paused for a second, taking in the feel of her. She was all silk and fire, and I thought I’d burn up in her.
“Are you ready, baby?” I rasped, holding myself perfectly still.
She gazed up at me with her incredible green eyes. Eyes I could get lost in. “I’m ready.”
I started to move against her, my thick cock sliding in and out of her. Faster. Faster. She moved against me in perfect tandem.
I was almost there. I could feel the pressure mounting. I plunged deeper and deeper, needing all of her.
“I’m close, Adam,” Meg gasped, spreading her legs even wider so I could pump into her with all of my strength. She wouldn’t be able to walk later. At least that was the plan. I wanted her to feel me every step she took. I wanted her pussy to ache with me.
And just when I was about to burst, I pulled out of her. My dick spasmed as a spray of hot cum spurted all over her chest. Her magnificent breasts coated in my semen. The creamy, white fluid dripped between her tits, marking her as mine…
“Fuck,” I groaned, nutting into the tissue I had grabbed just in time.
When I finished, I crumpled it up and tossed it in the toilet, flushing it away. I braced myself against the tiled bathroom wall trying to get my breathing under control.
I hadn’t cummed like that while jacking off since I was a teenager.
I didn’t want to think too much about what I had been fantasizing about. The mind went to some crazy places sometimes.
It didn’t mean anything.
I hadn’t planned to choke the chicken while imagining my fist was Meg’s pussy. But when I closed my eyes, her face was what I saw. And then it got a little…detailed.
Whatever. It meant nothing.
And denial is just a river in Egypt.
I got into the shower, the hot water rinsing away the rest of the steamy fantasy I had recently indulged in. I had to admit that imaginary sex with Meg was a hell of a lot more satisfying than actual sex with Chelsea had ever been. That was fucking pathetic.
My phone rang as I got out of the shower. I wrapped a towel around my waist and answered it without looking at the screen to see who it was.
That was a big mistake.
“Adam Ducate speaking.”
“Hey, Adam. It’s me.”
I froze. Had I unknowingly entered the Twilight Zone? Was I still stuck in my masturbatory delusions and not realizing it?
“Uh…”
Hearing Meg’s voice after jerking off to images of her naked body was jarring, to say the least. I didn’t say anything for a long time, trying to convince Mr. Pecker to stay nice and soft. I couldn’t deal with a raging boner on top of the surrealness of this moment.
“You there?” she asked, sounding slightly impatient.
Get it together, Ducate.
“Yeah, sorry. Just got out of the shower.”
I slapped a hand to my forehead. Why had I told her that? It sounded intimate. Flirty. That’s not what I intended, but she would probably think I was trying to make a pass at her. And there went Mr. Pecker again. Because now I was thinking about being in the shower. With Meg.
Stop it!
“Oh, sorry. Um, I can call you back.” She sounded uncomfortable because I had just made her uncomfortable. I was such an ass.
“No, no. It’s good. I’m covered up. I’m not standing here with my knob hanging out, don’t worry.”
I really needed to shut the fuck up.
“Knob? Did you seriously just refer to your penis as a knob?” she asked incredulously. And maybe a little amused.
And Mr. Pecker was at full attention now. That was the effect of Meg saying the word penis apparently.
“I’ve been binging on British sitcoms lately. I could also call it a trouser snake, meat and two veg, my dangly bits—”
“Okay, okay, I get the point. Enough already.” She was laughing this time. I had forgotten how amazing her laugh was. Deep and raspy. It sounded like sex.
Damn it…I had to stop thinking like that.
Think about grandmas. And Vladamir Putin. And Donald Trump. Having an orgy.
When I was more or less under control, I was able to continue the conversation. “So what can I do for you?”That sounded more formal. Good.
“Well, I mulled over your offer. About the mural. And I’d like to accept, if it’s still open, that is. I understand if you’ve found someone else—”
“Meg, I haven’t found another artist in the last twenty-four hours. The job is yours,” I assured her, tightening the towel so it didn’t fall.
I hadn’t been entirely truthful with Meg when I offered her the mural job. I had said I thought of it because of Dad mentioning it at dinner, but in reality, it was Mom who brought up the idea of Meg doing the mural when I spoke to her earlier in the week.