Jersey’s eyes widen and he holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, shit. I’m sorry. I’m just a little confused right now. What exactly are you asking me for? Have you changed your mind? Do you want to date after all?”
I choke out a scornful laugh. “God no. Look, man, you’re a clingy, crazy psycho, and I should have started looking for a new place the second Jackson kicked you out of our apartment, because frankly, the thought that you know where I live is quite unsettling.But,” I say firmly, just as he’s opening his mouth ready to rebut, “you’re also the best fuck I’ve had in months. And I really need a good fuck right now. Sothat’swhy I’m here. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
He just stares at me for a long moment, looking almost shell-shocked. He finally masters his expression, sending me a flat look. “Wow. You should write Valentine’s cards.”
I shrug. “Just making sure there aren’t any misunderstandings.”
I want to just get on with this so I can fix this weird funk already, so I unzip my hoodie and shrug it off, then I tug my t-shirt over my head.
I’ve just unfastened my fly and am starting to tug my jeans down when Jersey speaks, “Maybe I don’t want to fuck. I mean…you weren’t even that good.”
Despite his words, unmistakable heat flickers in his gaze as it fixates on my crotch.
I smirk at him, one eyebrow arched. “I’d be insulted if I didn’t know you’re a pathological liar.” I let go of my jeans and move my hands to rest casually at my hips. “But if you’re really not sure, we’ll keep the jeans on.”
He tears his glance away for a moment, jaw tense as he curses under his breath. Then his eyes return to my body, running up and down every inch of me with avid appreciation.
I let my eyes fall closed for a brief moment, soaking that in. My friends—except for Jackson, obviously—all think I’m a borderline sex addict. And maybe, in a way, they have a point. It’s not the actual sex I’m addicted to, though; it’s this. Don’t get me wrong, sex is awesome, but the physical pleasure is more like the cherry on top. It’s the desire and appreciation and praise and acknowledgement—and undivided attention—that make up the actual sundae. It’s why I don’t get a whole heap of satisfaction from guys who don’t get super into it—like the one I was with last night—and why I always prefer to keep a light on, and why the one time I tried a threesome it was perhaps the most disappointing sexual experience of my life. It’s also why I’m an exclusive top.
In terms of physical pleasure I don’t actually have a preference, and I love fingering myself or using anal toys when I’m alone. But when it comes to sex with a partner, I’m way more likely to get what I need from a bottom—it’s just how it goes.
I’m sure there are plenty of psychologists who’d have a field day analyzing my behavior and poking and prodding at all my sore points. But I prefer not to think about all that shit. This is just something I need. End of story.
Jersey lets out a loud sigh of resignation, letting his eyes fall briefly closed. “Damn it! I forgot how fucking hot you are.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I say with a smirk.
He narrows his eyes at me. “I didn’t realize what a narcissistic asshole you were.”
I gasp in indignation. “I am charming and affable.”
Jersey shrugs. “Sure, when you’re chatting guys up you’re charming as hell. But that’s not the real you, is it? You’re like one of those candies that start off sweet, but turn sour after a while.”
My jaw drops practically to the floor. “Hell, no. If I’m candy then I’m Wrigley’s Double mint—double the pleasure, double the fun.”
Jersey just stares at me, unimpressed.
I let out a frustrated sigh. Clearly this isn’t going to happen, so I fasten my fly and grab my t-shirt off the floor.
Fuck, what am I even doing here? This funk is playing havoc with my whole sense of reasoning. I should have known this wasn’t going to be a simple case of repeating the great sex we had last time. Jersey obviously still has a chip on his shoulder about the way Jackson summarily booted him from our place a few weeks ago. And I can’t imagine calling him a crazy psycho earned me any Prince Charming points.
Yeah, he still finds me attractive, but that’s not going to be enough. I don’t think I could be with someone who so openly dislikes me. I’ve never done that before. Part of the bang and bail thing, I guess—all of the guys I’ve hooked up with have found me sweet and charming. Which I am, damn it.
“So now we’renotgoing to fuck?” he asks, looking all bewildered again.
“You just called me sour on the inside,” I remind him.
His brows shoot up as a look of incredulity crosses his face. “And that offended you? You called me a psycho.”
Yeah, I need to get the fuck out of here. I hastily tug my t-shirt over my head and draw in a breath. “I apologize for that. That’s a serious medical condition that I shouldn’t have tossed around in a hyperbolic spiel. And I’m not offended—you’re welcome to your opinion. I just don’t want to have sex with someone who doesn’t like me. Where’s your kitchen?”
His forehead creases. “Huh?”
“Your kitchen—where you keep your food…”
“Uhh…it’s through there…” He points to a door off the living room, his expression still bewildered.
Without bothering to explain myself, I stride to the door and push it open, finding myself in a small but tidy kitchen. I tug open the door to the fridge and grin when I see a carton of free range eggs on the bottom shelf.
