Excuse yourself

You clear your throat, trying to find your voice after the last few minutes of silent agony. The air between you and Lily is thick enough to chew, every inch of your skin still buzzing where she touched you. Jean is absorbed in his painting ecstatic about the scene he just captured.

“I’ll be right back,” you manage, your voice coming out rougher than intended. “Just need to...”

And the quickly retreat to your office without finishing the sentence or collecting your clothes.

Lily tilts her head, a knowing smirk curling her lips. She doesn’t say a word, but the way she bites down on the corner of her smile tells you she knows.

You stride across the lobby, the cool air hitting your overheated skin, and duck behind the counter and into your office. The door clicks shut behind you, and you lean your forehead against the wall for a second, breathing hard. The image of her bare bottom grinding against your cock, the slick heat of her thighs, the way she whispered that you would have torn her in half, it all crashes over you at once.

You wrap your hand around yourself. You’re already slick with precum, your head swollen and aching. Two strokes. Three. The memory of her legs locking around your waist, the furnace between her legs hovering an inch from your tip, and you’re already there. You brace one hand against the wall, jaw clenched.

You’re right at the edge, every muscle locked, when the door behind you creaks open. You flinch hard, hand freezing mid-stroke, spinning your head toward the sound.

Lily stands in the doorway, still completely naked, the firelight from the lobby spilling in around her silhouette. She doesn’t say anything at first. She just leans against the frame, arms crossed loosely under her breasts, watching you with that same smirk she wore in the lobby.

“Don’t stop on my account,” she says softly.

You exhale, but your hand doesn’t move. You’re standing there, cock in hand, fully exposed, and she’s looking at you like a gallery visitor studying a piece she’s already decided to buy.

“I just wanted to watch,” she adds, pushing off the frame and stepping inside. She closes the door most of the way behind her, leaving a sliver of light. “But so does he.”

You blink. “He?”

The door swings open wider, and Jean steps into the office behind her, still holding his sketch pad under one arm. He’s wearing that same calm, unbothered expression, as if walking in on a man jerking off in his own office is the most natural thing in the world.

He glances at your hand, still wrapped around yourself, and nods once, approving. “You were at a good moment. Continue.”