I arch my brow at his sarcasm, my disbelief now compounded with quickly rising anger. But I’m breathing so hard that I can’t even muster the energy to huff incredulously at his mocking question, never mind actually answer it. Which is evidently fine with him because he doesn’t wait for one.
“Look at the mess you’ve made,” he says, casually gesturing between our bodies with his wet hand. As if for emphasis, his eyes flit to my jeans before lowering to the floor and back up again. My head feels fuzzy, and I’m still trying to catch my breath when he proceeds to taunt me some more. “You’ve just pissed all over my dining room floor. And me. These slacks aren’t cheap and these shoes were a gift.”
My own glazed eyes dart to the items in question, and my ears and cheeks burn with sheer embarrassment when I see the ends of his pants. The posh fabric is positively drenched, now a much darker hue of its original grey color, and wet patches punctuated by tiny beads of liquid are perched on his expensive loafers.
My eyes inadvertently drift upward, my blurry gaze landing on the very noticeable bulge protruding from beneath his pants; evidence that, in spite of his cool and aloof expression, his dick is rock-hard and, on some level, he’s still turned on.