More Than a Hotline Fling

-8-

Damian's POV

"I fucked up with June," I muttered.

Motivational sayings hung above my head, framed in black. My back rounded, elbows grounding on my knees. All ten fingers interlocked, straining my knuckles white.

Every time I sat on this sofa, my nerves cracked like the aged leather groaning under my ass. Two days after I fucked up June's Christmas present, a heavy weight pressed on my chest. It compressed my lungs, making the pent up air burn as I gathered my breath.

Leaning back, I hooked my right ankle over my left thigh. The shift jutted my knee to the side. My foot twitched, so I hugged it with clasped hands. I stared down at my tight knuckles, hoping the answers I didn't want to admit resurfaced on their own.

I hated this part every time.

"I'm going to need a bit more detail." A pair of blue eyes shifted up over the clipboard at me, concealing the amusement that tugged at the corners of her lips. Dr. Schafer's blonde eyebrows drew together, a silent prompt for me indulging further.

Therapy was one mental health service I ignored for most of my career. Hypermasculinity reeked strong in NYPD, including within my office. It was worse for male employees but female officers were also pressured to maintain the strong, composed projection that the job demanded.

My blunt sarcasm always led my therapy admissions to the point but teasing out details required more effort. The admission part slapped me with a confrontation I deserved but wasn't ready for.

Dr. Phelps, my first prescribed counselor, never offered any tangible suggestions. The man only absorbed whatever shit I spewed at him. After an initial relief I could've gotten confessing to a priest or one of June's plants, I left our sessions with more unresolved uncertainty than when I arrived.

His retirement brought in two new counselors, closer to my age. Dr. Schaefer's blew in with an enthusiastic, 'I can fix him' determination that reminded me a lot of June.

Heat rose up the back of my neck, tingling the tips of my ears. I scrubbed my palm over the stubble pricking my chin. "I, uhh, bought her a necklace for Christmas."

Her soft chuckle eased the strain in my shoulders but the weight compressing my chest doubled. "That's a nice gesture."

"It was supposed to be." My eyes closed. "Except the jewelry store put it in an engagement ring box."

Why that hadn't occurred to me when Adam whipped out an identical box, I wasn't sure.

"Oh." She tapped the pen on her rounded lips. "That could potentially cause some misconceptions. How did she react?"

June never mentioned the misunderstanding, which meant my beautifully blunt girl wasn't ready to discuss it. I didn't press through the awkwardness, instead holding her in the kitchen until her post-orgasm breaths evened.

"I need a shower," was all she whispered.

Before I asked to join her, her palm cupped the rod straining my pants. Under the hot streams hissing around us, I couldn't touch her enough. My hands roamed over the wet, slippery skin below her navel, cupped her breasts, and teased her pussy. When my fingers pressed harder into her inner folds, she tipped her head back and slid her eyes closed.

Flushed red and angry, my cock leaked beads of precum out the slit. I threaded it between the swell of her ass cheeks. Her smooth skin encased the nerves on the end of my cock with friction, throbbing pulses up my shaft. Bracketing one of her hip bones with my palm, I parted her slit with my fingers and thrummed over her opening.