“Lance invited some friends back. I’m in bed.”
“How many friends?”
“A few.”
“Are any of them your friends?”
“No, baby. The only friend I have right now is my left hand.”
A long silence follows.
“Sunny? You still there?”
“I’m here. I should go, though. It’s late. I have to teach yoga first thing in the morning.”
“You sure you don’t want to tell me about that dream you were having?”
That gets a half-hearted laugh. “You’re impossible. You should lock your door. ‘Night, Miller.”
My phone dies before I can answer her. I don’t have a charger handy, and I’m too tired to put clothes back on and look for one. Instead I shut my eyes and picture Sunny in her bikini—that’s the least amount of clothing I’ve seen her in—and grab onto my kinda-hard dick. I don’t have enough coordination, brain power, or energy to keep the image in my head and rub one out, so I just hold my handle in one hand and my dead phone in the other.
Then I pass the fuck out.
Pucked Over (Pucked #3) Page 34