The Muse's Undoing

“What are you working on?” I ask, palming my own full cock.

“My book.”

“The not so thrilling political thriller?”

He chuckles. “It’s non-fiction, Matty.”

“And how’s it coming?”

“Strangely, it’s been hard to concentrate.”

I grin. “How hard?”

“Rock hard.”

I lick my lips and stick my hand down my pants. “You should add a sex scene.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, surely there’s some horny congressman who needs a good dicking you could write about.”

“Or tie to a chair, see how he fares.”

“I love it when you talk nerdy.”

“What was nerdy about that?” he asks, defensive.

“See how he fares. Nerdy. Bet you’re wearing those hot glasses, too.”

“I am. They’re hot?”

“So fucking hot.”

“I’m learning so much about myself. What else do you want to tell me?”

“You want to hear more about your big brain?” I ask.

“I want to hear about the first time you wanted to fuck me.”

I lift my brows and run my fingertips over my balls, letting them fall heavily with the light slap of flesh on flesh. There were so many times—so similar in their origins. “You were asleep, rubbing your ass on my cock.”

“I was not.”

He did it all the time. “You were sleeping. I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

“When was this?”

“You want a date?”

“No, just…roughly.”

“Roughly about a week after you started partial weight bearing.”

“And did you ever want to do it after that?” he asks.

“Every night,” I tell him.

“Shut up.”