So what the fuck was changing?
Loneliness?
Nostalgia?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t making the ache in my balls any less painful.
Rolling over onto my stomach, I kept an arm against the mattress for balance while propping my hips up from it. With my hand still fisted tightly around my cock, I reared back and then snapped forward, fucking myself into my hand and imagining a tight hole instead.
Getting past that first ring of muscles, I buried myself deep down inside, my eyes sliding shut while I recalled those breathy moans. He’d sound like that with his head pressed down into the mattress, my fingers tangled in his hair while I held him there and fucked him nice and raw.
His hole would take me greedily. He’d beg me to come inside him.
My back stiffened, that familiar tingling at the base of my spine coming on hard.
With a groan, I exploded in my hand. Cum spat out from my slit, coating my fingers and sheets in a complete mess that had me collapsing face first against my bed. I laid there for what felt like ages, until my spend began to dry and my breath was no longer coming in quick bursts.
I cracked my eyes open, and then reality slammed into me.
Peeling my hand off of my softening dick, I held it up while rolling to the side, surveying the absolute mess I left behind. I’d never come so much in my life.
Being turned on and ignoring it was one thing, but giving in and touching myself?
Fuck. I needed a damn shrink.
Cleaningup my bed while balling up and tossing my old sheets like a humiliated teenager down the laundry chute, I dreaded the sound of my phone going off by the time I stepped back into my room.
There was an innate possibility that, given the dread filling my stomach with unease while I retrieved my phone from where I’d tossed it after stripping my bed, the person on the other end of that line was about to deliver me with some horrible news.
Call it superstition or intuition, however it mattered. I never tended to question those things that had been gifted to me by my mother.
“This is Avery McAllister,” I greeted, settling back down onto my bed.
“Avery, it’s Ted Evans.”
Jesus fuck.
Of all things.
“You hear back from that other law office?”
He sighed into the phone. “I did. Got the documents in my inbox this morning. They look legit. I’m getting them authenticated in the meantime, but I wanted to call you and let you know.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose was only doing so much for my oncoming headache. Despite Brandon’s attempts at helping me circumvent a migraine, it seemed that my stress levels were determined to give me one anyway.
“What does she want?” I asked.
“A meeting.”
“With me?”
“Yes. I imagine to discuss terms, but probably, more informally, to meet you.”
That had to be some kind of shakedown tactic.
Why else would a random Russian model be interested in meeting her dead husband’s adult child?
She’d had no interest before this, let alone enough to invite me into some kind of relationship with her before my father had passed.
