If I close my eyes, I can smell him, feel the heat of his touch, the weight of his body over mine. And yet, despite my dick standing to attention at the mere thought of what we did, it already feels distant. Like it happened to someone else.
I thumb through FlingIt, heading straight for the chat I share with Galen.
There’s nothing there. But he’s been online, an hour ago, and I hate the curdling sensation that ripples through me. I resent it—Iknowhe’s not mine. That he’s probably hooking up with someone elseright now. And that’s all last night was. A fuckingtraining session, for me to do the same.
It’s not an epiphany. None of this is new information. But I can’t help the nausea that courses through me. The cold sweat I feel on the back of my neck. The self-loathing that kills my boner.
You shouldn’t have gone over there.
My hand trembles.
I drop my phone.
Pick it up again.
I frown at the screen with my pulse a discordant thump in my ears, trying to think the way anyone else would. If Galen’s hooking up, why shouldn’t I? That was the point. That he’d helpme with my nerves so I wouldn’t make an arse of myself with anyone else. But even as I click out of the chat thread, I can’t bring myself to navigate to the browsing screen. I’d rather die, and if that means Galen’s the only bloke I ever touch, if that one night is all I have, so fucking be it.
I lay my phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling. Pick it upagainand open the chat thread. But in the time it’s taken me to work myself into a whole new mess, Galen’s left me a message.
Two, actually.
HotCraic97:In case I was too dick drunk to say it last night…
HotCraic97:…you blew my fucking mind xx
I slow blink at the screen. Galen doesn’t sayfuckmuch, unless he’s talking about the act. He’s too Irish for that, and I’m as hooked on his softer turn of phrase as I am the rest of him.
Why my mind zeros in on that, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s easier than acknowledging how my ribs strain around the stupid thrill in my chest. As if his word choice is some kind of sign he might be as wrecked as me after last night. Proof I didn’t dream the long shattered moments it took him to put himself back together after I made him come.
He’s just being nice.
But what if he isn’t? What if I really did make him feel even a fraction of what I did last night?
My thumbs hover over the phone screen, replies crowding my throat.
You blew my mind too.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
I really want to see you again.
But the knot inside me yanks tight, Charmaine’s derision loud in my brain, reminding me this isn’t supposed to be anything.
That it’s a hookup. A favour.
He’s. Just. Being. Nice.
I lock my phone and shove it under my pillow, frustration clawing at my insides at the same old bullshit throttling my capacity to just fuckingbe. To show myself to someone who doesn’t seem the type to pretend he wants to see it. None of the things I want to say are bad. What’s wrong with wanting to hook up again? It’s not like I’m asking him to fucking marry me.
Fuck’s sake.Pourquoi tu es toujours aussi con?
Because being a fucking idiot comes easy to me, clearly.
I shut my eyes, my phone a live grenade beneath my pillow. Point-two seconds pass before I drag it out again and find another message waiting for me.
HotCraic97:Wondering if I dreamed you. Lying here grinning like a regular eejit xx
Another message flashes up before I can even think about responding.
