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I didn’t answer. I just rolled over.
The towel went with me for about half a second and then gave up, sliding off my hip onto the floor. My cock slapped up against my stomach, fully hard, flushed dark and shiny at the tip where I’d been leaking against the sheet.
Claire’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Jesus Christ, Mark.”
“You asked.”
“I didn’t ask to see it!” But she didn’t look away. Her eyes were locked on my cock like it had hypnotised her, and her chest was rising and falling fast under the scrubs. “That’s… it’s bigger than Helen made it sound.”
“Helen talks about it?”
“Sisters talk.” She swallowed. “Fuck. Fuck. Put the towel back.”
She didn’t pick it up. Neither did I.
Instead she stepped closer, oil still glistening on her palms. Slowly, like she was reaching for something that might bite, she rested one hand flat on my thigh. Then she slid it up. Her fingertips traced the crease of my hip, the base of my shaft, and then she wrapped her slick fingers around me and squeezed.
I groaned so loud she shushed me.
“Thin walls,” she hissed. “Kelly’s next door.”
She gave me one slow stroke, root to tip, oil squelching filthily in the quiet room. Her thumb rolled over the head and smeared the precum around. She was biting her lip, staring at her own hand like it belonged to someone else.
“This is so wrong,” she breathed. And stroked again.