Chapter 26
After the tense confrontation with Daren and a sudden thunderstorm that made the rest of my workday damp and uncomfortable, all I want is to relax in my usual spot. But when I settle in my armchair, ready to start my new book, my brain tells me something is different. A small element has changed about my normal, comfortable setup.
I glance around to see if the chair is arranged differently, but no, it faces the same direction and sits the same distance from the window as it always does. I shift in the seat to see if maybe a spring in the cushion isn’t where it’s supposed to be. But the seat is just as cushy as ever.
When I turn my head, I realize what the issue is.
The smell.
Not that the chair smells bad. The opposite in fact. The chair has a subtle, delicious coconut scent.
The scent of Robin’s shampoo.
She’s been sitting in my chair.
Is this what the bears in “Goldilocks” felt like? Probably not. Only if the story were retold in a version where Papa Bear was unmarried and childless, and Goldilocks was a bombshell of consenting age, who he hoped thought his bed was just right.
She’s messing with my brain.
The sneaky little mechanic must wait until I head to bed, then settle her perfect ass in my seat. Does she even wait for the cushion to grow cold before she claims it as hers?
Well, now I know what’s different. So, I can forget it and get back to reading.
I open my book and run my eyes over the first line.
For five straight minutes.
I can’t concentrate on anything other than the knowledge that Robin sits in my chair when I’m not around. Tonight, she’s the one that’s gone. She headed out a little while ago, holding a book on philately. I asked if she’d gotten into stamp collecting—aka philately—and she mumbled something about a book club and sprinted out the door.
I’m glad she’s got friends in town. I know I’m not always the best company. When I go into work next, I plan to grab her some stamps. Maybe help with her collection.
But my mind strays to topics more erotic than shipping supplies.
Does she study in my chair?
Take naps in it?
Does she do . . . anything else?
I groan at the mental image of Robin taking care of herself in the exact spot I’m sitting in. She could, secure in the knowledge she wouldn’t be disturbed. Once I go to bed, I’m down for the night.
Now, I’m regretting that rigid part of my routine.
If I deviated, snuck downstairs sometime past ten, would I find Robin splayed on this cushion with her hand between her thighs?
My dick twitches at the thought, slowly hardening as I let the mental image linger.
I have the house to myself, the thought teases me.
These past few weeks, I’ve curbed my self-pleasure, never knowing when Robin might waltz into my bedroom, looking to borrow some of my clothes to pretend she’s me, or to lounge on my bed because she claims it’s more comfortable than the guest one, even after I bought a cushion top for hers. The shower is the only time I’m guaranteed a long stretch by myself.
But now, I have this moment and an erotic image begging to be utilized.
“Fuck it,” I growl, tossing my book aside, shoving down my sweatpants, and taking myself in my hand.
My hips jut at the contact, and I don’t bother with my made-up image anymore. I think about the time Robin mounted me in this chair. When she showed me what kissing truly was. When she pressed her hot core against me and wrapped her arms around my neck.
My hand is rough on my cock, punishing me for thinking about her that way, but unable to stop myself.
What if I hadn’t pushed her off my lap and run away? What if I’d slipped my fingers into her shorts and fondled her pussy? Would she have been wet for me? Soaked my palm?
Maybe she would have instructed me. Led me through how to pleasure her the same way she taught me to kiss. If I were good enough, would she let me slip inside her heat? So I could feel a grip on my cock other than my own hand?
I envision Robin surrounding me, clenching me, gasping my name.
“Fuck yeah,” I grunt, stroking myself faster and cupping my balls with the hand that was holding my book not long ago. But I’ve got a better story playing out in my head.
One where Robin sits on my dick and tells me I’m the best she’s ever had. Where I do everything exactly right until she’s breaking apart and screaming my name.
I turn my chin and breathe in deep the smell of her that lingers on my chair, then let out a low groan as my balls tighten.
In my mind, I envision her grin. Playful and satisfied.
And maybe . . . loving.
My hips buck, and I give a shout as cum spurts out, coating my hand and shirt.
As the ecstasy seeps away, I sprawl in my chair, panting as I come back to myself.
Shame creeps up on me.
Did I just jerk off to thoughts of Robin in the middle of my living room?
Clenching my teeth, I strip off my shirt and wipe up the mess I made of myself, then tug my pants back into place. Pushing out of my chair, I head to the laundry room and toss the shirt in the machine, then dump other dirty clothes on top and start the thing, getting rid of the evidence that I want Robin in a way I can’t have.