Chapter 3: Alone With The Guilt
The click of the lock was louder than I intended, a sharp metal sound that echoed in the silence of my office. My hand stayed on the knob a moment longer than necessary, knuckles white as I leaned my forehead against the wood.
Fuck.
I could still feel her. The press of her body against mine, the way she'd fit so perfectly in my arms. That scent of vanilla and something else, something sweet that clung to my shirt like she'd marked me.
My cock was a steel rod in my khakis, aching and insistent, and I couldn't think straight. I couldn't think at all.
My hand dropped to my belt, fumbling with the buckle. I didn't bother with any of it properly, just yanked the leather loose and shoved my trousers down enough to free myself. The air was cool against my heated skin, and I wrapped my fist around the shaft with a hiss.
The first stroke was almost painful, desperate. I leaned back against the door, my other hand pressed flat against the wood, and I stroked myself raw while the ghost of her warmth still burned against my chest. Her voice echoed in my head. *She's still Alex.* I knew that. I *knew* that.
But my body didn't care.
I squeezed my eyes shut, and the image that came wasn't of Alex. It was of her. Those wide blue eyes looking up at me with such vulnerability. The way her lips had parted when I pulled her close. The soft curve of her waist under my palm.
The anger hit me next, hot and sharp beneath the lust. I was terrified for him. For her. For whoever the hell she was now. But I was also fucking *pissed*. He hadn't listened. Not to me, not to Bianca, not to any of the girls he'd used and discarded like they were nothing but warm holes to fuck.
My grip tightened on my cock, stroking faster, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet office.
I thought about bending her over this desk. Right here, where I'd watched film of her throwing touchdowns. I imagined pulling those gym shorts down, exposing that tight round ass I'd felt pressed against my hip. I wanted to see it jiggle. Wanted to watch the flesh ripple with each sharp slap of my palm against her skin.
*Maybe this is what you need,* a dark voice whispered in my head. *Someone to show you what it feels like to be used.*
I groaned, the sound low and ragged. My hips thrust into my fist, chasing the image. Her cry of surprise as I pinned her down. Her gasping my name as I took what I wanted, showed her exactly what it meant to be seen as nothing but a warm hole, a tight sleeve for a cock that didn't care about her feelings.
The orgasm built in my gut, hot and unstoppable. I bit down on my lip, tasting copper, and let it take me.
My release spilled over my knuckles, thick and hot, splattering against the wood of the door. I kept stroking through it, milking every pulse, hating myself with each desperate spasm. My breath came in ragged gasps, and I slumped forward, forehead pressed against the door, my spent cock still twitching in my grip.
I stood there, trembling, the taste of shame bitter on my tongue. The aftershocks faded, leaving me hollow and sick.