He came through my door twenty minutes later,
just when I was beginning to think he wouldn’t show. Same curls,
same eyes, same pout as his sister. He wore a mesh top cropped
above his navel and jeans low enough to show that he wore nothing
underneath. A thin line of dusky hair peeked out above his fly and
trailed over the flat of his stomach to peter out just below his
top. When he hung his hands in his pockets, the jeans sagged lower,
exposing narrow hips. Suddenly I felt hot under the
collar—Tiffany’s picture didn’t do him justice.
As he glanced around the office, I considered
not messing with him. Get to the point, get the answers to
Tiffany’s questions, and jerk off to his picture later. I shouldn’t
let myself take advantage of the situation. But those noble
thoughts disso
