Page 39 of Under Her

I watch her go inside, and the door shuts safely behind her before I leave.

I see a taxi light heading my way, so I step out and flag it down.

The taxi stops, and I get in.

“Lake Shore,” I tell the driver.

The driver has the air conditioner on full blast, so I pull my jacket on. It smells of her, and my dick is instantly flying at full mast.

For fuck’s sake.

I want her so badly. And it’s getting harder not to act on my feelings. Leaving her just then was tough. I wanted nothing more than to kiss her. Take her inside her apartment and fuck her senseless.

But I can’t. No matter how much I want inside that gorgeous body of hers, I have to stay away.

And I hate that.

Maybe I should stick with my original plan of getting her ousted from the company. Then, I’d get my job back, and I’d also get to sleep with her.

Yeah, and that’s probably the most selfish and dickish thought you’ve ever had, Cross.

As much as I hate to admit it, she’s already shown herself to be a valuable asset to the company.

God, why didn’t I just fuck her all those years ago in college?

Because she hated you, dickface.

If I could go back in time, I’d tell eighteen-year-old Wilder to change eighteen-year-old Morgan’s mind about him, making her see that he wasn’t the total prick she thought he was, and then I’d tell him to fuck her for a week straight because a day would definitely not be enough.

But, unfortunately, I don’t have a fucking time machine, so I’m stuck in my perpetual hell of wanting her and not being able to have her.

I really need to get laid.

But I know, even if I went out to a bar now, picked up some chick, and screwed her for hours on end, it wouldn’t change anything. I’d still feel the same frustration.

Because my cock wants Morgan.

I want Morgan.

I step out of the shower in my office bathroom. I grab a towel, rub it over my hair to dry it off, and then wrap it around my waist.

I did a workout in the office gym, and I was sweaty as fuck afterward. There are showers down there, but I prefer to use my own. And it meant that I could jerk off.

That has become a regular occurrence for me over this past week.

Working with Morgan on the proposal for her D-plus bras meant I was with her a lot. And, when the proposal was done, we put it forward to my parents. Of course, they gave the go-ahead, so we’re well underway on project D-plus bras, meaning I’m going to be working with Morgan even more.

And, as awesome as that is and as much as I love being with her and working with her, getting to know her better, the need to fuck her is becoming unbearable. And the only way to keep it under control and stop myself from hitting on her is to jerk off regularly.

I tried getting it on with someone else when I went out with the boys on Saturday night—this chick called Mandy or Brandy or something to that effect. She was a dancer and was all kinds of flexible, as she was keen to demonstrate. But I just wasn’t into it. So, after getting her off because I felt like it was the least I could do, I left without even banging her.

The whole time, I’d felt like I was trying to talk myself into eating store-brand candy because it was all that was on offer when what I really wanted was Hershey’s.

Morgan is my Hershey’s.

And, apparently, I’m on a motherfucking diet.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. It’s steamed up. I wipe a hand over it, clearing it, and stare at myself.