Hey guys!
Thanks to my poor time management skills, these are unbetad. I did have people much smarter than me look over them before being posted, but any mistakes are all on me!
All my love to Jill, Ariel and Pearly for prereading, and Fran for putting up with my messy shit!
You know those old cartoons where the love-struck character is floating off the ground with hearts in his eyes?
Yeah, I'm man enough to say that was me on the way back to my apartment that night… And into work in the morning… and the whole time I watch Bella go through her morning routine of burritos and porn.
The guilt and general shittiness of the whole thing doesn't truly set in until the latter part of that routine does.
Every day since the start, when Bella would type in that familiar web address, I would diligently direct myself to another subject. But after meeting her face to face, talking to her for as long as I had, it makes me drawn to her in a way that I hadn't been before.
Of course, I had been drawn to her. That was the whole fucking problem, right? But this is different. This time a sense of entitlement washes over me. Like she belongs to me; like she is doing this for me...like she wants me to watch.
It doesn't help that she still has my fucking shirt on, and that I haven't slept a wink between leaving the bar and coming here.
I'm completely unable to look away as she balances her laptop on her knees and unbuttons the buttons down the front of my shirt. She doesn't pull it all the way off, and that only makes things all the more intriguing when she slips her hand behind the plaid flannel material to grab a perfect breast.
I desperately want to see them. Unknowingly bared to me. To taste them. To see her look me in the eyes when she does this to let me know it really is for me.
But her eyes stay glued on the video she's watching. I don't even care what it is this time; I'm more enthralled watching her cheeks grow pink and her breath quicken. Her other hand moves below the frame to slide into her panties, and I want to feel her move like this beneath me, arching muscles protesting against silken skin.
My cock is hard and aching against the zipper of my dress pants, and without thought my hand drifts to grip it.
You would think that's what breaks my resolve and makes me jack off to my subject like a pervert, but it has the opposite effect. Instead it's like a bucket of ice water down my spine reminding me that this isn't some twisted voyeuristic fantasy with a girlfriend.
I don't have any claim on this girl.
Disgust fills my veins as I shut my monitors down, signing out and effectively closing up shop.
On my way out, I stop to tell the Chief I'm taking a personal day, but I don't hang around for his answer.
I need to talk to my Dad.
