Chapter 8 Her Touch
~Hermes~
What the fuck.
No.
No.
No.
This is not what I meant when I said, “Wear something more appropriate.”
Fuck.
I did this to myself.
She’s completely covered. Neck to ankles. Not a single hint of skin, no collarbone, no sliver of thigh, not even a wrist.
Now I have to undress her with my imagination.
Which is worse.
I swallow hard, forcing my expression blank as I move toward my office.
And why the hell is she staring at me like that? Like she’s waiting for a compliment?
Jesus Christ. Don’t look at her.
I grip the door handle too tightly.
How the fuck am I supposed to survive today?
Last night, I tried to fix the problem with my own hands.
She was pretty — the girl. I don’t remember her name. Brielle? Bianca? Something with a soft "B" that melted on her tongue when she moaned.
I brought her to the same hotel I took June to – reset the obsession –
She was already naked by the time I locked the door behind us.
Desperate girl, she wanted to impress the man who brought her to a classy hotel. She is blonde, toned, pretty in that influencer way. Her tits are fake but perfect — round and high, with glossy pink nipples that catch the lamplight when she leans back on the bed, legs wide.
"Do you want me on my knees first?" she asked.
Her voice was soft, and too eager.
I shrugged off my jacket and undo my cuffs slowly, like I’m watching someone else.
"No talking," I said. "Just turn around."
She obeyed too quickly. That was the problem.
June hadn’t obeyed. Not immediately, but until I broke her down and made her want to.
I grabbed a condom from the nightstand. It was same drawer, same box from before.
She gasped as I pulled her hips toward the edge of the bed.
"God, you're big," she breathed
I clenched my jaw.
She stole the line. June said it first.
I pushed inside — slow, then all at once.
She moaned, high-pitched, and...performative.
Her walls were wet, warm, but loose. It was accommodating. It wasn't the kind of slick tight that clamps around me like it’s trying to swallow me whole.
It's wasn't like hers.
June’s cunt had gripped me like a velvet vice. Every thrust a struggle not to lose my mind.
This girl whimpered, breathed "Yes, yes, yes" like she read it from a script. I gripped her hair, pulled it back so I don’t have to see her fake moans, and slam into her harder.
Her tits bounced with every thrust, heavy and smooth under my palms, her pink nipples brushing my thumbs. They look good, but they don’t feel like hers. They weren't soft and real and hot from arousal.
June's chest had flushed when I touched her. Her nipples had stiffened just from my voice. She’d gasped like I sucked them, back arching like she’d break.
This girl just panted like she’s chasing a high she’ll never get.
"Harder," she begged. "You feel so good, baby—"
"Don’t call me that." My voice cuts like a whip.
I closed my eyes.
I’m back in that first night, reliving June’s nails in my back. Her breath in my ear. Her voice half-laugh, half-moan as she whispered, "Only if you do it properly."
Yes.
I’d already started.
I thrust harder, faster, like I can fuck her ghost out of my system. But it’s no use. I don’t want this girl.
I fucking wanted June.
I wanted her wild chestnut brown hair fisted in my hand. I wanted her smart mouth undone, her legs trembling, her body clenching like she doesn’t know what to do with the way I make her feel.
I wanted the real thing — the wreckage.
Not this polished imitation.
I pulled out before I finish, sharply breathing.
"Wait—are you—?" she turned, confused, lips swollen.
"You can go now," I said.
I tossed her a robe, a huge envelope, and pointed to the door.
She left, eventually, confused, and probably still unsatisfied.
I lie back on the bed, still hard, still haunted.
Just lie there in the wreck of the sheets, still hard, still throbbing, with nothing but her name blistering the inside of my skull.
June.
Fuck.
I dragged a hand over my face. The silence is louder than her moans in my memory.
I tried not to. I swear I tried not to, but my hand moved down anyway.
I gripped myself. Little man was still hard, and hot. Still aching from being inside someone who wasn’t her.
I stroked once, slow, and I see it:
Her – sucking cck –eyes.
That smug tilt in her smile, her brown hair mussed from my fingers, her thighs spread wide on hotel linen just like this, her lips parted as she'll whisper, “Please—just a little more…”
God.
I pumped harder.
My thumb brushes the tip and I imagine it’s her teasing, slick, warm tongue.
Her voice had cracked when she begged. It wasn't cute or controlled. It was raw and wild.
I’d made her that way.
I squeezed tighter, faster, grip like a vice, because her cunt had been just like that. Tight as hell. Wet and clenching. Sucking me in like she didn’t want to let go.
My jaw clenched.
I imagine her on her knees. That wide, curious stare. The smart mouth gone dumb from pleasure. Her tits pushed up in that fucking shirt dress, nipples hard enough to show through the fabric, begging for my teeth.
Fuck.
I thrust into my hand like I’m back inside her. Like I never left.
The pressure builds, sharp and relentless. My stomach tightens, and my muscles lock.
I come with a ragged breath, shutting my eyes tightly, like that’ll make the fantasy last longer.
And even as I spilled over my hand, I feel no relief, only shame, only more of her.
Still in my head, in my blood, and in my goddamn soul.
The door opens behind me.
I don't have to turn, because I know it's her.
Her perfume gets there before she does. Soft, familiar, and feel so wrong in this office.
"Your coffee, sir."
She moves to my desk and reaches forward, setting the coffee down with careful hands. Too careful, but her fingers hesitate just a beat too long, and the cup tilts.
My hand shoots out fast, and instinctive. I catch her wrist, steady the cup, steady her, while my fingers wrap around hers before I can stop them.
It's warm, small, and soft.
Too fucking soft.
Her eyes lift to mine. I read their emotions quick. It's startled, wide, unreadable.
So, I drop her hand, and back off like it burned me.
"Try not to tremble," I say, cold and flat. "It's pathetic."
She swallows. I don’t give her time to reply.
"Set the folders down. Then wait outside."
No thank you, no acknowledgment, just commands.
Because if I let her stay in this room a second longer, I’m going to forget where we are — and who I’m supposed to be.