Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

In my office,I close the door and lean my back against it. My flip-flops, thrown on as I ran out the door to respond to the flood alarm, are slippery and wet, so I kick them toward the coatrack in the corner. I have no idea what's going on this morning, but something's different. There's a charge in the air, electric and weighty, that seems to crackle every time Tate looks at me. It's not the first time I've felt the urge to mount him like a prize bull at a rodeo, but today, it's even harder to ignore.

I move to the disaster of my desk and scrounge around for blank paper and a functioning pen, so we can make a list of necessary parts to fix the pipe. Every night, I swear I'll come in early and tidy up things in here, and every morning, my tired ass chooses an extra half hour of shuteye instead.

A soft knock at the door pulls me from my paper-pushing errand, and I look up to see Tate poke his head through the doorway. Water drips from his hair in sparkling drops onto his soaked white button-down. The shirt is plastered to his skin, nearly translucent and clinging to every dip and swell of muscle. I've seen him in swim shorts enough on the beach along the river to know he's built like a granite deity, despite having a sincere hatred for routine exercise.

"Sorry, sorry, still looking for a notepad to make a quick shopping list for the hardware store. The toolbox is," I gesture a waving hand toward a pile of equipment and extra things like tap keys and handles, "over there."

"No hurry. I'm gonna pop into the men's to dry off a bit." Tate's warm voice settles some of my anxiety about the mess. It also sends flutters of awareness dancing in my stomach, reminding me the chemistry between us is particularly combustible today.

He's gone before I can swallow past my suddenly parched throat to respond. Am I imagining things, or did his eyes linger on me a little long? Probably wishful thinking from too little sleep and too much stress preparing for tonight's hearts-and-flowers themed event.

Speed dating is almost the last theme I ever expected to host, but Shelly's a persuasive force of nature. One minute, we're talking about bringing in talent for live music and maybe, testing out trivia nights, then blamo. Speed dating.

The whole thing is a brain warp, considering I'm pretty well known around here for being anti-romance. It's not even a matter of once burned, twice shy, or anything so tragically clichéd. I just can't get past the idea of being so vulnerable and reliant on another person.

My mom, for all her awesome mom-ness, is the definition of Clingy. With a capital C. Happy to go with whatever flow my father set, even when it meant getting up in the middle of doing her own thing to assist him in his. From the outside view looking in as a kid, it seemed as if she was always putting her needs behind his. And doing it with a smile on her face. That part has always freaked me out the most, I think.

It'd be one thing if she did it begrudgingly because his job as a Navy officer was more illustrious than her job working in administration on whatever base we lived on. Or if he pressured her to submit to his whims. That's not how it goes, though.

My dad can ask her what she'd like for dinner or what movie she wants to see a million times. She just sweetly responds with a meal she knows he prefers or a movie she's heard him mention wanting to see. And she's happy. So, so happy. Me? I find the whole idea terrifying.

A thud and groan drag me from my useless mental musings. Tate and I are the only ones here this early. I really hope the noises I just heard weren't from him slipping in a puddle of dripped water. Be just my luck to wind my best friend in the hospital after he showed up to save the day for me. I grab a stack of newly laundered bar towels from a stack on the chair by my desk and cross quickly to the men's room.

I push open the door and step inside, my eyes sweeping the floor in fear of finding Tate's fallen body on the tile. Another low groan and expletive has my eyes flying up to meet his in the mirror. He didn't fall. Not even close.

Tate is leaned against the single stall's wall, his eyes glued to mine in the mirror, his wet shirt tucked under his chin and his pants open and pushed low enough to free what is an admirably enormous cock. One hand cups his balls while the other fists around the thick base of his shaft.

Is it creepy that I catalogue every detail even as I blush fluorescent pink and attempt to pull my eyes away? Probably, but there's no way I'll ever forget the image of that ruddy purplish mushroom head weeping shiny streams of clear precum over his knuckles as his fist continues working up and down the impossible-to-be-real length of him.

Tate's body turns to face me, as though drawn by the same magnetic pull that's been twisting between us all day. Hypnotized and helpless, my feet shuffle closer without conscious direction until I'm close enough his panting breath tickles the baby hairs along my temples.

"Fuck…shit…Jill…sorry…fuuuuuuck!" His groan deepens to a growl that echoes off the tiled walls. An arc of thick cum bows through the air across the small distance between us to land on my bare foot. A second hot splatter follows it, his shout of completion a roar in my ears.

Need, hot and demanding, thrums in my blood even as my brain frantically sends distress signals that urge me to run. I drop the towels and press ice-cold hands to my cheeks, the blush I feel setting them ablaze, the only warmth remaining in my shocked system.

"You, um, you said my name." I feel like, at some point, I had a filter between my mouth and my mind. No filter in sight now. Just word salad tumbling out.

"Dammit, Jill, I'm so sorry. This is, fuck, it's— I'm… Fuck." The Tate I know is not one to stumble over his words. Then again, I've never seen the man immediately after he blasts an orgasm all over my feet, either.

Guess we're both learning new things about each other today. A dull flush climbs up his scruffy cheeks until he's as red as I probably am. His hand shakes as he stuffs a still impressively swollen cock back into his shorts and steps over to the sink to wash his hands.

"I…uh…sorry you had to see that. That I did that," he apologizes. The stiff set of his shoulders and the regret blazing in his eyes as he meets mine in the mirror breaks something in me. For all my wariness around men in general, and my determination to steer clear of his rumored playboy ways, Tate's my best friend in all the world. I won't be able to bear it if this inexplicable moment in time ruins our friendship.

"May's International Masturbation Month!" I blurt, the inane trivia fact being one Shelly and I laughed at when we sketched out a sexy trivia night event weeks ago.

Tate stares at me in surprise, a small smile softening the grim line of his lips. He stands still as a statue while he waits for my reaction to walking in on him mid-wank.

"Guess some folks like to celebrate early and often!" I chirp like a hyper chipmunk. Embarrassment over my continual babbling makes the whole situation worse. "Now would be a really swell time for the earth to open up and swallow me whole."

"I think that should be my line, yeah, Jilly? After all, I'm the one who…" He rakes a hand through his short, dirty-blond hair, and my eyes follow every motion as hungrily as when he'd used the same hand to work his thick, veiny hardon.

"Um, yeah. I gotta… I gotta… Be right back!" I mumble. Numb legs manage to shuffle me backward out of the men's room, the pile of bar towels I dropped nearly tripping me.

I have no clue where I'm going or what Tate's saying, though I almost hear him over the rushing blood past my ears. My feet, still acting of their own volition, carry me back to my office. Fingers, clumsy with distraction, push the door shut and throw the lock.

Tate's voice is a rumble from the other side of the thick wood, and I imagine he's asking me to come out and discuss this like rational adults. Like friends. Trouble is, after what just happened, I have no clue where we stand. What would one call a friend who stares at another friend while he hits a Big O while growling her name and nutting on her bare feet?