Hotline Fling

30: Walking Wet Dream

Damian's POV

My phone screen shook like my hand was a fucking earthquake. A slow, deep breath did nothing for my frayed nerves or my heart punching my ribs like a cage fighter with nothing to lose. I should not have recorded this. How many times had I looked at it? A thousand?

The three-second video recording of June's face replayed in my hand. Password locked so no one else's eyes ever saw it, but I held my own torture. Nestled in my palm was the final confirmation of who June was. And I was officially fucked.

Including blurry video pauses, her face was more beautiful than I remembered. The same black and purple corset from her first picture hugged her body –live, warm, sensual as fuck body– her long brown hair tumbled around her delicate face. The same eyes that caught my attention with one frightened look from our sidewalk smash burned with sexual confidence, then sparkled like fucking fireworks when she blew a kiss. Or, maybe that was my reaction.

More than my dick stirred with interest on every replayed inward roll and release of her lower lip saying the 'M' in my name. The tense line dividing her lips burst with a wavelike motion into a bold red. And after what we did before that? I was buried so deep into this woman I couldn't see the fucking shovel to dig myself out.

With every three-second replay, my heart jumped until my pulse buzzed in my ears. Initially, I assumed I got caught up in the heat of the moment, but it carried overnight into the morning. A complete and total lost cause, I literally carried it in my hand all night. The number of times I replayed her good night message was beyond embarrassing. 

Now that I knew she was Juneau Olstead, my fucked-up brain drifted back between whether I didn't attend Jason's party and left June alone or I proposed to her. She was potentially the best thing that had ever happened to me and unlocked every fear I didn't know I possessed.

My body flexed its preference. Whenever I thought about our video cam session, my dick sprung up, ready and willing for another round. Surprisingly, my restless pacing didn't wear a path into my condo's hardwoods. It should have; I was up all damn night.

After maybe an hour of sleep, I was lucky I didn't come into the office with two left boots, clipped shaving cream or toothpaste on my belt, or wrecked my bike on the ride in. Of course, every person I passed noticed my disheveled state.

"Sir?" Shirley's forehead tensed, the lower lids of her eyes arching like I was in the middle of a mental breakdown.

Maybe I was. I blinked at her version of concern. "Hmm?"

Despite her being my administrative assistant for more months than I counted, I knew little about this short, overweight African-American woman. She was thorough at paperwork, terrible at double-booking my work calendar, and wherever she went after work was significant because she left at six pm on the dot every day, raising two invisible middle fingers.

"Yesterday's reports, Sir?" She rustled a stack of papers in my face. "Are you alright? Should I call the Mental Health Resources Office?"

"What?" I pulled my head back before she sliced the tip of my nose with a paper cut. She cradled her phone receiver between her ear and shoulder. One hand thrust the papers again. The other one's fingers hovered over her dial button. "Maybe I realized I know practically nothing about you, Shirley."

"And I try very hard to keep it that way," she quipped, hung up the phone, and slapped the reports into my chest.

"Let's go to lunch today, Shirley," I offered and took the papers from her. "My treat."

Without a blink, she sat down in her seat with a huff. "No offense, Sir, but the most enjoyable part of my lunch is that I get away from you."

Her sarcasm made me chuckle, and I clutched the reports in mock heartbrokenness. "Am I that horrible to work for?"