Jesus Christ. Way to make myself sound like a fucking stuffy hundred-year-old professor. Retire for the evening? Who the fuck says that?

I shut my laptop before I’m tempted to sit around and wait for his reply. Sauntering out of my office and into the kitchen, I put my glass in the dishwasher, before taking the stairs two at a time. Walking through the master bedroom, my gaze lands on where Aida is sleeping on the bed. The TV is still on, as is her bedside lamp, but she’s passed out.

Despite sleeping in separate rooms, for some reason, all my stuff still remains in here. It’s almost like if I move it all out, it becomes more official. We’ve become professionals at shoving our shit under the rug and avoiding the giant, flailing elephant in the room. To the outside world, we’re still Mr. and Mrs. Philips, happily married high school sweethearts. Only, that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Undoing my tie, I roll it up, and place it in the tie drawer, before flicking the button on my slacks, unzipping them, and letting them pool at my feet. Next, my fingers work the buttons on my shirt open, bringing it down my arms. Reaching down and grabbing my slacks and socks, I throw those and the shirt into the hamper before heading into the bathroom.

My hand reaches for the cool brass knob inside my shower, turning it almost all the way to the left, and letting the water heat. My thumbs make their way into my waistband, lowering my boxers down my thighs until they slide off, and tossing them in the bathroom hamper. On autopilot, with my mind in a million different places, I place a glob of the minty green toothpaste onto my toothbrush, scrubbing and cleaning. Once I’m done, I step into the shower, where the nearly scalding hot water beats down on my chest. It’s relaxing on my sore muscles, and I stand there for a moment before washing myself.

The shampoo comes first, lathering it in my hair and rinsing it out. Then I reach for my loofah, squirting body wash onto it, and massaging my body with it. My thoughts drift back to Cash’s email… how flirty it sounded. And all the other times he’s sounded flirty with me. Then to his Instagram, those almost naked pictures. God, he’s a fucking beautiful man.

Hanging the loofah up, my soapy hand comes down to my cock, which is now completely hard. The groan that comes from my chest when I grip myself is involuntary, as is my head falling back on my shoulders. My eyes flutter closed as my fist works itself from root to tip slowly. Firmly. Images of Cash appear behind my closed lids.