Bad. Very bad. Bad, wrong, bad.|
Fuck. So good.
Seventeen different types of wrong.
He canít help it, canít stop it, canít control it.
He grips himself tighter, twists his wrists at the top of his strokes.
Big trouble. Thatís what heís headed for. But he still canít make himself stop.
Goddamnit, heís at work, on the clock. What happened to professionalism? This is career suicide waiting to happen.
And people are close too, nearby. Probably just back there, over the hill, towards the lights. But he canít help it, because Greg was looking at him with those bedroom eyes, those fuck-me-here-and-now eyes and he isnít very good at saying no.
Canít say no when he asks to come over, canít say no when he says theyíre just friends and nothing more.
Canít stop himself from coming, hard. Moaning as he lets go.
Itís bad, itís wrong, but he still wants it, likes it. Likes being on his knees in the dirt, cock in his mouth, giving Greg a blowjob when theyíre supposed to be searching for evidence.
Likes the way Greg grips his hair, the way he thrusts his hips, the way he tastes when he comes.
It feels good to be bad.