Pretty sure we both know it. But, man, all I can think about is seeing her tomorrow and knowing that soon, she’ll be stuffed full of me.
If Frank knew what I was up to, he’d slice off my balls.
6
Kit
The thing with Jake is a terrible idea. I need to cancel. Today. I’ll take him into the office and tell him I changed my mind. He’ll have to respect that, right?
Will he, though? Or will he want me to shell out anyway?
Like I’m something he’s owed. Likegetting his dick inside me, as he so eloquently put it, is somehow his right now that I’ve agreed to do it. It’s a sordid porn.
And here’s the worst part. The part that’s got me at work way, way earlier than I need to be. The part that made me lose hours of sleep last night because every time I shut my eyes I saw his face, those cool blue eyes taking in details of me that he shouldn’t be able to see through my clothes, my skin. Every time I tried, I’d end up touching myself, first at the idea of how he’d push me up against the wall and take me, rough and mean. Wordless. Just fucking me, no emotion, no connection. I’ve never done that.
He’d use me for his pure pleasure, while I use him for his…seed.
Even that word is somehow right and wrong and horny as hell.
Now I’m obsessed with this thing. Obsessed with his desire, which has inflamed my own, drawn it out into the open, made it real and, in doing so, taken away any semblance of normalcy between the two of us.
So, while I cut lemons and pull a fresh keg out of the back an hour earlier than I normally would, trying to prove that this is just work, picturing him taking what I promised, I have to admit that there’s a piece of me that wants it that way. Hard and unfriendly, like I’ve reneged on some promise and he’s taking the debt out in flesh.
I am in no way prepared, after these hours and hours of thinking and feeling things I’ve successfully suppressed since the man showed up at my bar, to actually see him in the flesh when he walks through the front door, the chimes tinkling merrily behind him.
For a few seconds, I lose my bearings at the sight of him—bigger, even, in real life, than the version my fantasies supplied over and over last night—my knife skids across a lime peel and slices through my thumb.
A small hurt noise chuffs out of me, I reach for a bar towel and it’s not there. The bev nap I finally grab from the stack is immediately soaked through. “Dammit.”
The sting of lemon juice and the sight of all that blood makes me think I’ve messed up and really cut myself. I’m afraid to look. I’ve always been this way, scared that it’ll be worse than it is. Prepared to pretend it’s fine and just running it under water’ll be enough. Slap a bandage on and go back to what I was doing.
“You okay?” Jake’s behind the bar, leaning over me. He’s got a clean bar towel. No idea where he found it. “Let me see.”
I hunch over my hand, but he reaches out and gently pries it away from my middle.
“Come on. I’ve got it. Shut your eyes.”
How does he know I don’t like to look? Even if the darn thing’s cut clean off, as long as I don’t have to see it, I’ll be fine.
“Good.”
When did I obey? I don’t remember closing my eyes.
He takes my hand, edges the paper off and turns it over, then presses the towel against it. It doesn’t hurt all that much and now that I’m taking stock, his presence is forcing more adrenaline through my veins than the actual pain itself.
“Hold this.” He eases the terry cloth into my other hand and stalks off, his footsteps heading toward the kitchen. The creak tells me that the door’s swung in and, a second later, swings back out.
When he comes back up to my side, it’s his warmth I perceive first. The man’s pumping out heat and, with his size, it sort of engulfs me. Lulls me so that when he grabs my hand again and takes the towel off, I’m able to open my eyes and look.
Not at my bleeding hand, but at him. He’s bent over, busy cleaning and wrapping my left index finger. From this close, I’m able to see the whorl of his ear, the growth pattern of his fresh five o’clock shadow, the way his nose looks perfect from the side—long, with a bump—but when caught from the front, it’s slightly bent.
From a fight, I’d bet.
He’s a brawler, he said. Or he was. Maybe whatever he did to wind up in prison also broke his nose.
His proximity sends my body into a fresh tailspin. A dance of a million contradictions. Nipples hard, core soft, wet, everything tight and somehow also swollen. My belly settles into a heavy, liquid ache, while my breathing spins out, quick and erratic.
“Thanks,” I manage to say to the side of his face after a shallow inhale.
