Chet: Hey. Mark: No. Chet: What? Mark: I’m not letting you get me hard again in a meeting. It was too late, though. I’d been sneaking glances over at Chet between PowerPoint slides. He was wearing a silvery-gray oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up, index finger rubbing idly over the edge of the armrest. A circle, a swoop, back and forth. The way he sometimes rubbed over my slit when he took a break from blowing me, because he knew it drove me crazy. So I was already sporting a solid semi that became the full monty when his name popped up on my screen. Chet: I wasn’t going to try to get you hard.
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