The Play (Briar U, #3)(27)

Demi jots down more notes, then says, “’Kay, let’s finish up. I’ve got dinner plans with Nico. But I think I’m starting to form an idea about your diagnosis.”

“This really is fun,” I admit. The irony is not lost on me that I’m having a good time describing—in detail—the way my father’s brain works.

Dad isn’t my favorite person, but I don’t typically complain about him to anyone. My whole life, I just went along with the cookie-cutter perfect family thing we’ve got going on. Anything else would’ve felt self-indulgent. I mean, I’m a rich dude who grew up in Greenwich and attended elite private schools. Other people have it worse. Some of them suffer from actual physical abuse, which is far worse than simply being unable to meet the unrealistic standards of an egomaniac.

Nevertheless, it is fascinating to describe these events of my childhood from Dad’s point of view. I don’t know if I’m hitting the right notes, but more research on the subject will probably help me zero in on specific thought patterns.

“I’ll see you next week,” I tell Demi. “But I don’t think I’m available on Monday, though.”

“How about mid-week?”

“I should be around on Wednesday night. But not the weekend—we’re playing three games.”

“Okay, possibly Wednesday night,” she says, “but that’s usually my gym day.”

“You go to the gym?”

“Of course. Why do you think I look this good?”

Naturally, my gaze is pulled right back to her tight, petite body. She can’t be taller than five-three, but, man, her legs seem endless. Long and tanned and bare in her tiny denim shorts. I bet her ass is taut and perfect, a perfect little handful.

Oh shit.

It’s happening.

I’m fantasizing about her.

Abort, dude, abort!

“Anyway.” I wrench my gaze away, but not before she catches me.

“Oh my God, stop it. You’re not allowed to look at me like that,” Demi orders. “You’re a monk, remember?”

“I wasn’t looking at you like anything,” I lie.

“Bullshit. You were giving me the Penis Eyes.”

“I was not. Trust me, smoldering looks aren’t my go-to move.” I smirk. “If I was making a real move on you, you wouldn’t be telling me to stop.”

“You have an actual move?” A delighted smile lights up Demi’s pretty face. Her skin is incredible. Glowing and flawless, and I don’t think she’s even wearing makeup. “Show me!”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No,” I growl. “You’re not allowed to see my move.”

“Why not?” she whines.

“Two reasons—you have a boyfriend, and I’m a monk.”

“Fine. But for the record, I’m betting your move is lamer than lame.” Grinning, she opens the top drawer of her desk. After some fumbling, her hand emerges with another lollipop. Cherry, this time. Or maybe strawberry.

“I think you’re a sugar addict,” I inform her.

“Nah, I just like having things in my mouth.”

“Nope, not even touching that statement.”

She glares at me. “It’s called an oral fixation, Hunter. It’s quite common.”

“Uh-huh. If you say so.”

And despite my best efforts to forget all about this conversation, thoughts of Demi and her oral fixation follow me all the way home and consume my sexed-up brain. And the next thing I know I’m locking the bathroom door and stepping into the shower, a tight fist around an erection hard enough to slice a slab of marble in half.

It’s happening again.

I’m fantasizing about Demi Davis, and this time I ain’t stopping it.

I picture her plump lips wrapped around that red lollipop, except within seconds the lollipop is replaced with the head of my cock. I’m nudging it between those sexy lips, and her tongue instantly darts out for a taste, because she’s so hungry for it.

“Mmmm,” I imagine her murmuring. “Tastes like candy.” And I imagine myself saying that her pussy probably tastes even sweeter, which makes her moan and the throaty sound travels the length of my shaft and tightens my balls.

“Goddamn.” My hoarse expletive echoes in the shower stall. I rest my forearm against the tiled wall as I work myself over with fast, desperate strokes. My dick is so hard it hurts. The steam in the bathroom makes it difficult to breathe. As I start fucking my own fist, my forehead sags against my arm and I suck in gulps of heated oxygen.

Oh man, this feels good. My cheesy scripted fantasy has dissolved in the steamy air. Now I’m stroking my cock to random images that flash through my mind—Demi sucking on me, Demi’s cleavage spilling from those tight tops she wears, her tanned legs…spreading for me. Ah hell, I wonder what noises she makes when she comes—

I go off like a bottle rocket. Holy hell. My hips grow still as a rush of hot pleasure surges through my body. I shoot in my own hand, breathing hard, black dots flashing in my field of vision and my cock tingling wildly.

I feel only slightly guilty that I fantasized about Demi. And I think she’d forgive me if I told her. I mean, it was bound to happen. I’m in dire straits, five endless months without sex. By the end of the month, I’ll be jerking it to fantasies of Mike Hollis.