Page 113 of Good Touch, Bad Touch Collection
“Mr. Hertzof.” She stumbles for a beat on my name as I reach forward to spin her phone that’s sitting perfectly perpendicular to her keyboard a few degrees to the left. Everything here is at ninety-degree angles. It’s unsettling. “You are here for a service, aplatonicservice.”
“You mentioned that already,” I reply, running my hand through my hair, wondering if she’s reminding me or herself.
Her face is clean and fresh. Fucking glowing.
Last night she was more made up, but today, she’s all business and more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen. And her freckles?
I’m memorizing each one as I wonder if she shaves her pussy bare or if she has a little strawberry blonde bush for me to rub my face against.
The points of her nipples are waving hello through the pink fabric of her t-shirt, and I imagine them as the same color. I groan through my teeth, my mouth going from dry to drowning, my gaze devouring the lush lines of her body, already knowingI’m going to spend the rest of my life drinking at the heavenly fountain between her legs.
Which is something I’ve never done with a woman before. Somehow, that felt like too intimate an act with anyone I’d been with in the past. Wrapping my cock in latex and indulging in my baser instincts, until now, felt detached.
But, with her, I want it all. Skin to skin, tongue to pussy. I want to get to know her clit up close and personal. I want her flavor to brand me. To make me hers as much as she’s going to be mine.
The urge to establish a physical connection to her overwhelms me as I brush my fingers down her arm, watching the flush spill onto her chest and goosebumps rise under my touch but she doesn’t pull away.
Sweet torment flows over me like warm honey as I restrain myself from throwing her on top of that desk and sinking home.
“Mr. Hertzof, I really must…” She side-steps away as I lick my lips. Then she notices her cockeyed phone, frowns, and sets it straight again. “If you want me to give Dr. Hoffman a fair report on our session, I suggest you do what you can to get yourself under control.” She nods toward my growing stiffy, making me grin as her fingertips dig into her palms. “It’s not unheard of for a male client to have this sort of physical reaction, but I will not proceed until you return to a flaccid state.”
Flaccid?
Did she just say flaccid?
After my eyes have laid upon your perfection, I’ll never know flaccid again, my dear.
A dark chuckle rattles in my throat. “Not sure we have that much time, baby.”
“I do not allow my clients to use pet names.”
“I’m not just a client. I’m the guy that defended your honor. I think I should be allowed to color outside the lines a little.”
I’m not usually so forward with women. I’ve indulged, yeah, but my seasonal celibacy brought me to a conclusion: my hand is far more efficient and less complicated than meaningless pussy. And relationships? Never found one that was worth the effort.
But, this girl.
This. Girl.
It usually takes an act of God or a baseball bat to the side of my head to make me feel anything besides anger or a ragey sort of competitive focus.
There’s nothing meaningless about this beauty. She’s gotminewritten all over her.
But, no matter how much my dick wants to break the rules, fuck, I gotta simmer down.
My ‘team comes first’ mantra feels hollow, looking at the swell of her tits and the way she’s not afraid to put me in my place, but still, I’ve got a locker room full of guys, and their families, relying on me getting my suspension shortened and getting the team name engraved on that cup.
This boner-inducing beauty is apparently the key to that door.
No pussy until the season is over.
That’s my hard and fast rule, and fuck if I want to break it.
Unless it breaks me first.
I fucking know if I get off the starting blocks with this green-eyed man-eater, I’ll be ten kinds of distracted and won’t play worth shit.
That can’t happen.
