Page 22 of Under Her

Yeah, that’s it.

It has to be. There’s no other explanation for it.

So, all I need to do is ignore this stupid forbidden-fruit infatuation that my cock has with Morgan until it passes. And, in the meantime, I’ll screw as much pussy as possible to keep my dick occupied on other things and not her.

I left the office late on Friday, as my work had taken me twice as long because my mind kept drifting to thoughts of Morgan and all the sex I wanted to have with her.

I’m a guy. Of course I think of sex on the regular. Not every seven seconds, as theorists suggest, but definitely a lot.

I fucking love sex. What’s not to love about screwing a hot woman until you’re both hot and sweaty and coming hard?

But, after Morgan left my office, all I could think of was her. How hard she made me from one look. And I was fast heading toward breaking the every-seven-seconds theory. I couldn’t get thoughts of her out of my head. Her bent over my desk while I fucked her from behind. Then, on my desk. On my sofa. Up against the wall. Her on her knees, sucking my cock. Me on my knees, licking her pussy. Then, in the shower of my private bathroom, fucking under the hot spray. I even veered off to thoughts of screwing her on my bed at home. That was when I knew shit was getting crazy.

I stopped off in the diner near my apartment building to grab a takeout burger. The waitress who served me was hot. Not Morgan hot, but hot.

She slipped me her number as she handed me the burger.

I wasn’t going to call her. But then I got home, and while I ate my burger and drank a beer, the Morgan-sex-scenario reel in my brain started playing again, and my dick was aching from all the teasing my brain had been doing.

So, I called the takeout girl and went to her place after her shift ended.

What? Don’t judge me. I’m a guy, and I needed to have sex. I needed the release.

Only it didn’t make me feel as good as I had been hoping it would. My balls still felt blue even though I’d just come, and I had this weird feeling in my chest. If I didn’t know better, I might say it was…guilt.

Which was weird because I had nothing to feel guilty about.

Afterward, I went back to my apartment and lay awake, thinking about—yep, you got it—sex and Morgan. Or sex with Morgan.

I figured I’d be okay by Saturday night. Once I was out with the boys, I’d be back to normal.

Yeppers, you guessed it. I was wrong.

I wasn’t feeling it. Or any chick in the bar. So, for the first time in a really long time, I went home alone on a Saturday night.

I skipped brunch with the guys, feigning illness, as I didn’t feel like listening to their sexual proclivities from the night before or admitting that I hadn’t had one of my own to share.

I honestly don’t know what the hell is going on with me.

It must be a blip. Maybe I’m having some kind of early-thirties crisis.

I figure I just need to avoid seeing Morgan as much as possible, which is hard, considering I have to work with her. But, if I keep her at arm’s and eye’s length, then my cock will get over this little obsession that he has with her, and things will go back to normal.

It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m heading into the office. I wasn’t in yesterday, as I was in Kentucky all day, meeting with our supplier of satin knit, which we use to make our panties.

I say, “Good morning,” to Leah, ignoring her come-fuck-me eyes. I’ve got enough going on with my internal battle without having to contend with her.

I head straight to the elevators and press the call button, waiting.

The elevator door opens. When I’m inside, I hear the click of heels on the tiled floor.

Please don’t be Morgan.

I really don’t want to be stuck in a small space with her while my cock is acting up like it has been.

But it’s not Morgan. It’s a brunette who I don’t recognize.

I should be relieved that it’s not Morgan, but I’m not because a tiny, sadistic part of me was actually hoping that it was Morgan.