IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(5)

I felt my eyelids growing heavy, the late evening and flush of orgasm cocooning around me and dragging me toward sleep. My phone buzzed and it took effort to pry my eyes open.

212-555-0160: How did you like your first experience of being told what to do?





I smiled, feeling sleepy and warm and safe.

Conor: I liked it very much. Thank you.





212-555-0160: Good. You will text in the morning to check in and tell me how you’re doing. Before and after your presentation.





I blinked, sure I couldn’t have read that right. He’d remembered I had a presentation in the morning and he wanted to hear from me again? Was it possible he actually cared about me? That this wasn’t just a one-night stand for him?

My mind raced, my heart pounding as I tried to figure out how I felt about that. Was I interested in him? Did I want more? Then the second half of his text came through and my thoughts came to a screeching halt.

212-555-0160: Giving up control can be an intense experience and not everyone handles it well the next day.





Oh, right. That was part of it. I shook my head, blushing at the thought that the stranger had actually been interested in more from me.

Conor: I’ll be okay.





212-555-0160: It wasn’t a request, NotSam.





My chest squeezed at his words.

Conor: Yes sir.





212-555-0160: Good. You did well and deserve some rest. Get some sleep and good luck with your presentation tomorrow.





My phone buzzed, and a new image popped up on the bright screen. There, in its thick, stiff, and multi-inched glory, was the hottest dick pic of all.

My own cock made a valiant effort to stand up and cheer for the unexpected visual gift, but exhaustion won over, and I drifted to sleep.

It didn’t occur to me until the next morning when I was appreciating the late-night photo again, that the stranger’s dick wasn’t surrounded by the denim jeans the hotel bar employee had been wearing. It was surrounded by fine black suit pants and the tails of a white, button-down oxford shirt. And in the corner of the frame was a glimpse of rich, burled mahogany wood like the kind you’d see in an executive’s office. The shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing the tanned, muscular forearms of a completely different man than the skinny bartender.

Horror washed over me as I realized the implications of this discovery.

Who the fuck had I been texting?





2





Wells





For the millionth time, I caught myself reading through the unexpected sexy texts from earlier in the night and forced myself to put my phone facedown on the desk. My forty-second-floor corner office was dark and still this late at night. The lights of the city twinkled outside both walls of windows, but inside was lit only by the soft glow of two side table lamps. I’d turned off all the other lights when “Sam” had stopped responding. I’d assumed he’d dropped the phone to chase his orgasm, and the thought of him jacking that pretty dick and fingerfucking his own ass had been enough to get me hard as nails.

I’d flicked off most of the lights and taken my own cock out, snapping a quick pic as a quid pro quo for the guy who had me so unexpectedly turned on.

Even though I didn’t know what his face looked like, I knew what the tight buds of his nipples looked like, the soft curve of his belly under a trail of dark hair, the ruddy, swollen cock slick and shiny from precum at the tip. I imagined running my tongue over all of it.

I thought of him kneeling on the bed, his ass up, his face pressed against the mattress as he looked back at me. I imagined teasing him with my cock, running the head of it around the edge of his entrance. Pushing against it softly, slowly.

I wondered what he would sound like as I started easing my way inside him. Would he gasp? Whimper? Bite his lip?

Would he maybe press back against me, hungry for more?

Just that thought had me shuddering, heat flushing through me, gathering at the base of my cock. I clenched my teeth, throwing my head back. Wanting to roar with pleasure. Wishing I were in that hotel room, pouring myself into my sexy stranger’s ass.

My fingers tightened, as if it was his cock I was squeezing rather than my own. I growled out a “Fuck,” as warm fluid spilled over my knuckles, down across the back of my hand, and onto my suit pants. Then I sat there panting, staring at the evidence of my pleasure. Surprised at how fast I’d come.

I glanced at the door and cursed under my breath. It wasn’t even locked. And while I was certainly the only one still at the office this late at night, it wasn’t like me to forget something so basic. Usually I exercised much better control over myself, especially when it came to sex.

But the stranger’s text had taken me by surprise and caught me off guard. I’d spent the last several days preparing for a critical meeting scheduled for the following morning, and I was exhausted and stretched thin. Plus it had been an abnormally long time since I’d had any sort of sexual encounter.

Normally I’d take a break and spend a few hours exorcising my sexual frustration, but I’d parted ways with my regular sex partner several months before and had yet to find someone to take his place. And it wasn’t like I was the type to pick up a stranger from a club and take him home. I was a man with certain preferences when it came to my lovers: I liked them obedient—willing to cede control to me at times. I didn’t require full-on BDSM; I wasn’t into a total power exchange or whips and chains, though if that was something they liked, I was always willing to give it a try.