Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
That was how I felt right then.
My brain was short-circuiting, unable to think clearly past the currents of desire that chased away any rational thought I should have had in that moment about the final lines that were about to be crossed, that I knew I couldn't jump back behind after.
But I didn't care.
I couldn't.
Not with the need pinging off every nerve ending, leaving me feeling frazzled and a little crazed from the overstimulation.
With an exhale that shook through my chest, my hand lowered over my belly, the bar of soap slipping from my grasp to thump and slide across the tile floor as my hand kept moving lower, lower, feeling the line of my panties, then slipping beneath.
It wasn't until my head fell back on a whimper as my fingers found my clit that Fitz's hand began to move, starting to stroke his hard cock.
My breath felt caught in my chest as my fingers kept moving over my clit, kept driving myself up under Fitz's intense gaze.
His breathing went fast and shallow, his strong chest heaving under his suit jacket and black shirt as his fist kept stroking himself, as his gaze stayed fixated on me.
My soft whimpers became throaty moans as I felt my walls tightening, as my body teetered on the edge before tossing me down into the depths of pleasure, leaving me crashing over and over as I forced my gaze to stay open, stay on Fitz as his body tightened, as his breath rushed out of him on a quiet groan, as he came along with me.
My eyes drifted closed for all of ten seconds, I swear.
But when they opened again, the spot on the bed where Fitz had been sitting was abandoned.
And just like that, the moment was over.
And reality was rushing back in, knocking my breath out of me as it pulled me under its merciless tidal wave.
"Shit. Shit shit shit," I hissed, ducking to grab the soap, putting it back in place, then the detached shower head before climbing out, drying off, and grabbing my clothes. A shiver coursed through me as the cold, wet fabric met my skin.
But it was good.
Bracing.
It kept me in the current moment.
You know, where my job was possibly on the line.
When I made my way back out of the bathroom, my boss was nowhere to be found.
By the time I got to the front window, he was already peeling out of the driveway, leaving me unsure and anxious about my future as his house manager.
Surely, he couldn't just go on as if nothing had happened.
But then the day came to an end, and I hadn't heard from him. So I went home, turning off my phone, and turning my swirling thoughts and knotted stomach into art, sure that when I finished and powered up my phone again, there would be a call or text telling me I was done.
It never came, though.
So, I showed up for work the next day.
And the day after.
Fitz just made sure never to be anywhere near me again.
It took over a week to have my nerves calm enough to let me think about the cameras again.
I'd been nervous at first, something new for me when it came to putting on a show for someone.
But, as the weeks stretched on, I got more and more daring.
Until, eventually, I found myself on his very bed with my skirt hiked up, and my fingers buried in my pussy, getting off where he slept to thoughts of him rolling me around those very sheets.
Still, nothing.
If we happened to be in the same house together at the same time, he stayed behind a locked door, avoiding, ignoring me, making me wonder if he was even looking anymore.
It was a thought that bothered me more than he should have, that he didn't want to watch me anymore.
It bothered me so much to make me desperate enough for the thrill that I took some extreme measures...
Nine
Fitz
My fucking bed smelled like her for two days until the bed was stripped and washed.
It was fucking embarrassing how disappointed I'd been to come home after a long day and find my bedding smelled like laundry detergent instead of Wynn's vanilla and rose scent, instead of the faint trace of her pussy from finger-fucking herself in the place where I slept, leading me to fevered dreams and a straining cock that no amount of self-gratification could satiate.
After her scent was gone, though, I had nothing left.
Because I could never cross that line we'd already crossed again.
The reasons were endless.
But the top contenders were that it was an abuse of power on my part, one that could get me sued if I wasn't careful to put an end to it, but it was also a bad idea solely because she was damn good at her job, and I didn't want to have to replace her.