Unethical

Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Maxim

D r. Reeves enters her house with a scowl on her beautiful face and evident frustration in every motion. I’m certain she didn’t enjoy my gift at all. What a shame. I made it just for her, and it was perfect.

She carries the empty Tupperware beneath her arm, and my cock throbs at the thought of her eating that cantaloupe, her dainty fingers gripping the fruit and the puzzled look on her face when tasting the secret ingredient. My fantasy devours all that my mind conjured up and spilled for her.

She closes her front door, blows a chunk of hair away from her face, and heads toward the kitchen. My little doctor is frustrated. And angry. Is this because of me? Did she figure out my secret? Does she know my come filled her mouth?

Maybe the answer to each question is yes, and maybe she’s upset with herself because she liked it. This is what I choose to believe. That she liked it and wants more, and she hates herself for it.

I wish I could go inside and take advantage of that hatred. I could fuck that hate right out of her.

But what I choose to believe isn’t the same as what is real. In reality, she’s probably frustrated with her fucking job, not me. She probably isn’t thinking about me at all. I’ve guaranteed I’ll creep into her brain, though. She’ll try to fight it, but I’ll flitter across her mind for a moment when she sets down that Tupperware container, and that’s what I have to focus on. I can still infiltrate her thoughts.

That won’t be enough forever, unfortunately. I’ll eventually need to infiltrate her .

The lights flick on in a luminous trail as she travels through her house. First her kitchen light, then her dining room, and last, her living room. The nearly wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room give me a perfect view. I hurry to the back of the house and sink behind the bushes in front of my favorite oak tree so that I can continue watching her.

She slips off her coat and sits down on the couch, breaking her normal routine. She usually heads upstairs for a shower as soon as she’s finished her lighting ritual. I’ve never seen my beautiful creature of habit relax after work.

She grabs the remote from the coffee table, flicks on the TV, and sinks into the plush couch. A contented sigh escapes her, lifting and lowering her chest as she kicks up her feet. Seeing her so relaxed feels weirder than watching her strip for a shower. Somehow, this is much more intimate. Her sudden show of normalcy intrigues me.

In our most vulnerable moments, thoughts of being watched often filter through our minds. It’s human nature. Natural instinct. But when we let our guard down, when we’re just doing normal things, we don’t stop to consider who might be lurking just outside our windows.

This also means the doctor isn’t thinking of me right now, and that’s a problem. Am I so easily forgotten because she didn’t have a full hour of me in her office? Is that why she didn’t shower after work? Is she more relaxed without me?

Fuck that. She’d better learn how to relax around me. If she can’t, I know how to make her relax.

I remain in the bushes until I realize she’s nodded off. Her head slumps to the side, and the remote barely dangles from her loosened grip. Her chest moves up and down in a slow, steady rhythm. As much as I’d love to remain here and watch her sleep, I have a more exciting idea.

Through the lengthening shadows, I creep to the back of her house. The back door opens when I tug the handle, and I quietly slip inside. I could take this moment to go into the living room and take what I’ve always wanted, but I don’t want it like that, even though I think about it almost nonstop. Instead, I climb the steps on silent feet and stand in the doorway of her bathroom.

I inhale the scent that fills my head every time I watch her shower. I step into the room and walk beside the granite countertop, trailing my fingertips over the cold surface. My hands graze all that makes her who she is.

Her brush.

Hair clips.

The hair tie she wears on her wrist.

Her fucking toothbrush. Oh god, it’s perfect.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I grab the toothbrush and whip out my cock. My hand drives my strokes as I lean over the white bristles and pleasure myself to the thought of what I’d do to her if I unleashed the monster that lurks inside me. A detailed fantasy plays in my head like a movie, and she’s the unwilling star.

I spread her pretty little thighs and fuck her until she begs me to stop. I can almost taste the salt of the tears dripping from her eyes. Each imagined scream of protest sends an ache into my balls.

I stroke harder and faster as I pull the toothbrush closer and press it against the head of my cock. I spill my load on the bristles with a groan I’m forced to stifle, but some of it drips onto my hand.

That won’t do.

Instead of allowing a drop to go to waste, I look for somewhere else to leave it. I glance in her shower and see a purple pouf dangling from a clear hook. The same purple pouf I’ve watched her rub across her naked body as she showers. I grip it and wrap my come-soaked hand around it, swiping and wiping until the last of my pleasure mixes with the mesh. I can’t wait for my doctor to brush her teeth and wash her perfect body with my come.

“Enjoy having me all over your body, doc,” I whisper.

As I leave the house, a sinking feeling comes over me. These little acts are losing their rush. The dopamine hit has shrunk to a negligible level, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I’ll need something more. Something bigger. Bolder.

Something like what I imagined in her bathroom.

While I don’t want what happens between us to be entirely one-sided, while I want her to want it as much as I do, she may not give me any choice. Whether the dish is warmed up or frigid, a hungry man still needs to eat.