Chapter 19 #2
None of us ever got into drugs for this exact reason.
We saw a lot of kids in our shitty neighborhood get fucked up when we were younger.
They got a taste from someone, and that was enough to get them addicted and then broken.
My brothers and I always wanted more for ourselves than that, so we stayed out of that shit.
But this? Willow?
She feels like a drug.
Like something that’s going to wreck us all.
I grit my teeth and drag in a deep breath, forcing myself to walk out of the room. I ease her bedroom door closed the way it was before, and then leave her apartment, locking the front door behind me.
Although I drive with my usual careful precision, the drive back home seems to pass in a blur.
Luckily, Ransom and Malice are nowhere to be seen when I get back home.
The large, open space of the warehouse is dark as I climb the stairs and go to my room, closing and locking the door.
It’s not one of the days that I normally jack off, but my body is throbbing angrily, demanding some kind of relief.
It makes the buzzing feeling under my skin even worse, as if I might fracture into pieces.
Willow’s panties feel like a weight in my pocket. My hand trembles slightly as I draw them out, rubbing the soft material between my fingers.
My cock pulses in response, and I curse under my breath, undoing my fly so my dick isn’t pressed right up against it.
“One, two, three…”
I start to count slowly, something that usually helps me regain my equilibrium and control, but even as I recite the numbers, my free hand is shoving my pants and underwear down enough to free my aching cock.
“Four, five, six, seven…”
It springs free, jutting out from my crotch, swollen and flushed and desperate for attention. My head is full of thoughts of Willow. The way she looked in bed, her lips parted, her hair spilling over the pillow.
“Eight, nine…”
That stretch of skin that was bared by her shirt riding up. The scars that were just as much a mess as everything else about her.
“Ten…”
Her panties are still in my hand, and running on instinct, I wrap them around my cock. The material is warm from being in my pocket on the way home, and it feels so fucking good.
Usually, I don’t use anything when I get myself off.
Just some lube and my hand. But the feeling of Willow’s panties against my heated flesh makes my cock weep, sticky beads of precum spilling from my tip and sliding down.
I push my hips forward, letting the material drag against my sensitive skin.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and my eyes fall closed while I breathe through it.
My hand moves slowly at first, as if I’m trying to hold on to some semblance of control, even though I’m breaking my carefully established rules.
But that doesn’t last long.
I’ve stopped counting, and before I know it, I’m fucking hard into my hand.
Working my cock faster and faster, chasing the burning heat that builds in my stomach and spreads outward like an inferno.
My breathing is heavy, and every other exhale comes out as either a curse or a moan.
I can’t help it, and I fist my cock hard, my fingers tight around the panties that I’m using like a toy.
I think about Willow standing in our home, about the way she reacted to everything I said.
How she tried not to move but couldn’t quite control herself.
She was watching Malice, but I was the one who was right there with her.
I was the one with my voice in her ear, describing her reactions as she danced on a knife’s edge of desire.
In my head, I imagine the way her face must’ve looked as arousal stirred inside her, and that’s enough to have me tensing up.
Pleasure and heat slam into me, undeniable and unavoidable.
I groan as I come hard, pulling the panties back enough that they’re not wrapped around my dick when I empty myself in hot, wet spurts.
I smear the mess of cum into the crotch of her panties, staring at it for a long moment. My chest heaves as I pant for breath, and some of the tension bleeds out of my body as I come down from the high of my climax.
After a second or two, I shake myself and ball the panties up into a wad, stashing them in my closet where I keep things I don’t want anyone to mess with.
“Fuck,” I whisper, curling my hands into fists and pressing them against my forehead. The tension in my body has let up somewhat, but the mess in my head is even worse than it was before.
I shouldn’t have done that.
Stripping out of my clothes, I place each article in the designated basket for washing later. Then I grab fresh clothes and walk naked down the hall to the bathroom we all share.
While the water heats up, I tap my fingers against my thigh. Seven times on one side, and then seven times on the other. I count each number, careful to make sure I don’t miss one. I start near my knees and then work my way up in neat rows, picturing them in my mind. Even and perfect.
Once steam billows out of the shower, I get in, making sure the knob for the water is adjusted the way I like it. Not exactly in the middle, but a little to the right, lining up with one of the grout lines in the tile.
I wash my body thoroughly, scrubbing with my loofah, making sure not to miss any spots. Under my breath, I repeat the ingredients for the body wash I use, the sound of it drowned out by the crash of the shower water hitting the tub.
When I feel clean enough, I wash my hair once, then again, and then once more, completing a sequence in my brain.
Some of the buzzing under my skin and in my head lessens as I start piecing together the armor of my control again. After ejaculating in Willow’s panties, I felt adrift. Off center. Like my equilibrium was fucked up.
Going through my routines helps with the feeling of spinning out of control, and when I step out of the shower to dry off, I feel more like myself.
Enough that I can get shit done again, anyway.
After tugging on my clothes in the right order, I run a hand through my damp hair and head back to my room, stepping inside just in time to hear a soft ping from my computer.
Good. It’s done.
I cross to the desk and pull up the program I left running before I went out to see Willow. It’s a relief to refocus on the task at hand, shutting down my emotions and putting my mind to work on a problem I can tangibly solve.
Finding a random man in a city with a population of over three million people, using the hacking skills and software at my disposal, makes sense to me. It’s logical and orderly. It soothes me, and I sit down in my chair, clicking through the program to see what it’s found.
Satisfaction fills me as I note that there’s a solid match for the mystery man who followed Willow.
Gotcha, motherfucker.