Used yes.
But where my own pleasure was taken into consideration . . . no, no one ever put in the effort. Or maybe I never let them, too focused on what they wanted in order to keep them around.
As my eyelids flutter open and my brain starts coming online, I register the weight of an arm across my abdomen and the sleepy grumbling.
Oh, fuck me.
Beckett.
I'm still at his place, tucked into his bed. He didn't kick me out after we fucked. He . . . he let me stay.
Another thing that’s never happened. Usually, I'm out the door before the sweat even dries, a hasty “Thanks” thrown over my shoulder as I leave.
Except for those few times I tried my hand atrelationships.
Being discarded like a sex toy didn’t compare to being told I was, “too much” and “too intense.”
My muscles tense.
Of all the things I’ve been called, those two are the ones that cut the deepest—triggers, as my former therapist once said.
The others—psychopath, unhinged, lunatic, crazy—I own, made them a part of who I am.
I blink rapidly, swallowing past the lump in my throat. It's only a matter of time before I overwhelm Becks and he leaves.
Except, he’s mine, so I need to figure out a way to make him stay, to accept I'm worth the headache I give.
I slip out of bed, grabbing my boxers from the floor. They're the only piece of clothing Beckett didn't absolutely destroy last night. The memory of him ripping my shirt, the feral look in his eyes . . . it makes me shiver, my dick twitching and wanting more.
Down, boy. We've got work to do.
I pad quietly toward my pants on the floor by the front door, then grab my phone. Nothing like an internet search to spark some ideas on how to prove my worth as a boyfriend.
Wait, boyfriend?
Slow your roll, Novotny. One night of mind-blowing sex does not a relationship make.
I flop onto the couch and unlock the screen. “Holy shit.”
My hand flies up over my mouth, worried I was too loud.
Forty text messages.
What the hell did I miss? My stomach knots up. Did my friends need me and I wasn’t there? Quickly, I open the Bottoms Up group chat, hoping Eli is okay, especially considering the number of notifications.
Feisty Mouse:
Made it home.
Jackson:
Novy, Let us know you’re okay.
Feisty Mouse:
He’s fine. Did you see your coach spank him?
Jackson:
