77. Michael

MICHAEL

M y nostrils flare as I try to tamp down my annoyance.

I’m usually good at controlling my emotions. Or at least keeping them off my face. But this rollercoaster of a day has been a fucking struggle.

The drop of depression at having to leave that little cottage when all I wanted to do was stay there, in bed, with my woman,

The spike of rage at finding those photos, on display, in the fucking airport.

The lust at examining the photos.

The satisfied joy at learning Alice will be my co-judge on the show.

And now the feel of Alice’s soft body beneath mine, but not being able to take out my frustration by filling her in every way I can think of because—the noise sounds again—someone is knocking on our fucking hotel door.

I roll off Alice with a sexually frustrated groan and stomp across the suite.

“Wait!” Alice calls after me, and I hear her feet slapping against the floor as she chases after me. “You can’t answer the door like that!”

She grips my wrist.

“Like what?” I growl, not angry with her, just the situation.

She doesn’t flinch at my tone. Instead she snickers. “Like that.”

Alice reaches out with her free hand, and I jolt when she cups my dick through my pants.

My cock throbs, reminding me that I’m hard, and it’s obvious.

“You’re not answering the door alone,” I tell her, trying not to lean into her touch.

“And I’m not letting the world see any more of your dick than they already have,” she retorts.

I take a slow breath, trying to calm said dick, but it’s impossible with the heat of her hand against me.

“Fine.” I concede. “You can stand in front of me.”

She rolls her eyes but steps ahead of me.

There’s a third knock at the door.

“Fucking chill,” I snap. “We’re coming.”

Alice mutters something that sounds like I wish , but I purposely ignore her. If I start imagining her coming on my dick, it will never deflate.