No one compares to Liam, so there’s only one thing to do.
I open the folder hidden in my computer files without hesitation. No point pretending I don’t need this. Thevideo loads. Fireball in San Diego. Liam is shirtless, dripping in heat and feedback, bending into his guitar like it’s someone he wants to shag senseless. Gyrating his hips like he’s fucking the music.
Fuckingme.
Closing my eyes, I picture him undressing in front of me while I unzip my jeans, spit into my palm and wrap my fist around my cock. I imagine him behind me. On top of me.
In me.
His hands roughly grip my hips as he pushes into me and begins to fuck me like we have all the time in the world.
“You’re mine tonight,“ he drawls, pushing deeper until he hits my prostate. “You feel me, baby?”
My hand speeds up, hips lifting. I yelp before I mean to. Icanfeel his cock inside me. His rhythm. His weight. The magical way he’d swivel his hips to stimulate me, his fist around my cock. Each of us wheezing with guttural pleasure on our way to nirvana.
The orgasm tears through me. Not quiet. Not controlled. My body convulses, cock spurting hot across my fist and stomach. I grind into my palm, chasing the echo of his voice.
Truth be told, this solo orgasm is better than any hookup I’ve ever had. Sex with strangers means nothing. Cocks or cunts don’t fill the right space inside of me.
Masturbating to Liam isn’t some rockstar fantasy. It’s muscle memory.
It’struth.
Grabbing some tissue from my desk, I clean up my mess without looking down at the come drying on my body. As pleasurable as these sessions are in the moment, afterward shame sits low in my gut.
For fuck’s sake, my sex life has been reduced to dependence on a ghost. How do I stop putting energy into a man who probably doesn’t even think about me anymore?One who hasn’t touched me in years. I’m not daft. Liam and I are not in the cards.
Wasting precious time isn’t an option. One of my grants runs out in six months. Savings might stretch another four if I keep living like a student. At this point, I don’t have a backup plan. Don’t want one.
I wantthis. Isis Management.
No more bullshit. I’m gonna break Sidewalk Riot. Get GoreGlam’s tour finalized. Put Peach Harvest in the studio and release some music. Soon, I might make a behind-the-scenes pitch to get Fireball back to Europe and give Liam a reason to pick up the phone and get some real closure.
Or, maybe I won’t on the last one.
Looking down at my cock, soft and flopped over on my thigh, I realize the mess I made is worse than I thought. There’s come on my shirt, my waistband, and streaked across my belly nearly up to my nipples.
I strip off the shirt, toss it in my backpack and grab a clean GoreGlam shirt from the merch cabinet. Then I head to the loo. Turn on the warm water and soap up the cloth I use too often for this. I scrub my skin, rinse my face, look in the mirror.
The man looking back already has his borderline obsession tucked away. Buttoned. Neat. Presentable.
Back at the desk, I breathe. Open my calendar. Respond to the label. Confirm the new rehearsal space for Sidewalk Riot. Flag two invoices. The bass player still hasn’t answered my texts, but the rest of the day holds. Focus returns not because I want it to, I have to force it.
By seven, I’ve done enough to justify closing the laptop.
Jacket on. Phone in pocket. Time to scout. Deciding between scoping out a new rock band in the Docklands or an open mic near Wexford Street, I decide on the latter.
The city stretches open as I step into it. Dusk cools everything but the rhythm in my chest. My boots hit pavement like a beat I know by heart. I haven’t lost the ear. Haven’t lost the hunger. I’m building something I’m proud of.
Sitting at the back bar with a Guinness, I take in my surroundings. The crowd is sparse and so far, the talent isn’t anything I’m interested in. I decide to finish my beer and head to the other venue when I catch movement at the small back corner of the stage. Someone new’s about to play, might as well listen.
Turning my stool around, I’m not sure what to expect, but it isn’t her.
The woman is slight, maybe five-foot-two. Sandy-brown hair falls in waves around her face, sea-glass eyes scan the crowd like she’s not sure whether to smile or run. Wearing a plain, slate-blue T-shirt, ripped jeans and no makeup as far as I can tell, there’s something compelling about her. Familiar.
She’s raw nerves and something…alive.
When she steps up to the mic, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. There’s a shimmer around her, even before she speaks.
