IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(8)

Wells: Let them hear you. Only listen to me. You feel good NotSam?





NotSam: Fuck.





It wasn’t enough. I needed more. I wanted to be in that bathroom with him, standing over him, watching as he pleasured himself for me.

Wells: Send me a photo. I want to see what my words do to you. Show me your hard cock. Are you leaking for me?





NotSam: Stop. I can’t keep quiet. Please.





Despite his protest, a photo flashed on the screen. The sight of him had me throbbing. His erection was ruddy with veins prominent in the light of the bathroom. His balls were drawn up tight, and I could just catch a glimpse of royal blue cotton underwear shoved behind his sac. Sure enough, there was sticky wetness shining on his tip.

God, I wanted to taste it.

Wells: Remember the rule from last night. No coming until I say so.





His response was immediate and immensely satisfying.

NotSam: Please can I come?





I waited for a beat.

NotSam: I’m close. So close.





Wells: How long until your presentation?





NotSam: Presentation?





I grinned. Clearly my plan to distract him had been effective. Before I could give him permission to come, however, the office phone in my bathroom buzzed. It was Deb. I considered ignoring it, but she would just come knock on the door if I did.

“What is it?” I barked.

“Sorry, I… ah, just wanted to give you a heads-up that security called up to confirm credentials a few minutes ago. Mr. Newell should be here any minute.”

My finger hovered over the disconnect to dismiss her, but then her words registered.

“Mr. Newell. I thought it was Dr. Newell?”

“It seems she’s sent her son in her place. His name is Conor.”

This was an unexpected change. I despised being taken by surprise. Dr. Newell had been the one to insist I be involved in the negotiations. And now she’d decided to bow out? It felt like a ploy. It wasn’t going to work.

“Once you seat him in the conference room, wait ten minutes before buzzing me please,” I told her.

She hesitated. She knew how important punctuality was to me. But she didn’t question the order. “Yes, sir, Mr. Grange,” she said before disconnecting.

My cell phone buzzed. I’d missed three texts from NotSam, all of them begging to please come. Another one popped on the screen.

NotSam: I’m going to be late to my meeting. Please can I come? Please?





Poor guy—I hadn’t intended to make him wait so long. And yet he had anyway.

For me.

My own erection roared back to life at the thought.

Wells: Come for me, beautiful. Send me a picture afterward so I can see how much you enjoyed yourself.





I stroked myself, imagining this man somewhere in the city nutting in the stall of a public bathroom while trying desperately not to be heard by people coming and going outside the flimsy door.

A photo appeared on my screen. His cock was thick and glistening, cum still dripping from the tip, trailing over his fingers. I couldn’t stop myself from picturing those fingers trailing along my own flesh. Cupping my balls, grasping my cock. Sliding along my flesh.

Never had a fantasy as mundane as a simple hand job gotten me so wound up. It was too much. The thought of my pleasure spilling across his knuckles sent me over the edge, and I ground my teeth to muffle the sound of my orgasm as it shuddered through me.

Afterward, I grasped the edge of the counter, my legs unsteady as I tried to bring my breathing back under control. My phone buzzed with another message.

NotSam: Thank you.





I stared at the words, surprised how warm they made me feel. I glanced back at the picture he’d sent, noticing part of his navy blue necktie could be seen from where he’d pushed it aside with his dress shirt. There were little silver Daleks in a repeat pattern across it.

My sexy stranger was a Dr. Who geek. Why did that make me smile?

Wells: You’ve got this.





I waited a beat to see if he’d respond. But of course he’d be rushing to his presentation. I had my own meeting to worry about. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and noticed a stupid grin lingering around the corners of my mouth. I might not have minded so much if I hadn’t also noticed the thick wash of stubble coating my jaw and chin. I glanced at the time. I had a little over ten minutes before I needed to be ready. I could either shave or do some last-minute research on Dr. Elizabeth Newell’s son.

I scowled at my reflection. I’d let myself get distracted by my anonymous texter at the expense of work. It wasn’t like me. I ran a brush through my hair, cursing the fact it had already dried enough that the natural wave refused to be tamed, and yanked on my suit pants.

As I buttoned my shirt and put on my tie, I conducted a quick Google search on Conor Newell. I’d vaguely remembered from my biographical research that was the name of Elizabeth Newell’s only child, but I didn’t recall him being related to her biomedical research.

When the image of the younger Newell came up on my computer screen, I noted how attractive the man was, in a lithe, quiet sort of way. But what was more interesting to me was the career information listed for him.