I fucking feel alive.
“This what you wanted?” he snarls, breaking our kiss to glower at me with eyes that blaze like wildfire.
I lick my lips, savoring the taste of him there. “It’s a start.”
His hands grip my neck, fingers digging in just enough to make it hard to breathe. Each squeeze is like a bolt of electricity, jolting me with excitement and fear. I can feel his breath on my skin, hot and heavy, as if he’s about to burst into flames.
D’s body presses harder against mine, causing the brick wall behind me to dig painfully into my spine. But the pain is nothingcompared to the heat radiating from him, the scent of smoke and vodka that fills my senses.
We both want this so badly, and it’s evident in every move we make.
I can feel the massive bulge of his cock pressing against me. I grind against it; I want to feel every inch of its hardness filling me up and making me come undone. To make me scream with pleasure. I need it to make me come, to fulfill my deepest, most primal desires.
“Fuck,” I gasp, arching into him as he grinds against me. “C’mon, big guy. Show me what you’ve got.”
For a moment, his eyes darken with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. His grip tightens even more, and I think he’s finally going to let go.
But then something changes.
He freezes in place, his entire body stiffening as if he’s been shocked. Suddenly, he pushes away from me with a force that sends me stumbling back, like I’ve burned him.
Without a word, he turns and storms off, leaving me slumped against the wall, breathless and horny.
What the actual fuck just happened?
10
Wren
The shrill screech of my phone’s alarm tears through the silence, jerking me awake.
Fuck.
I groan, my head pounding like a jackhammer’s going off inside my skull. Squinting at the cracked screen, I see it’s only 6 AM. Christ, I just got in two hours ago.
I roll onto my back, wincing as my muscles protest. The ceiling fan wobbles lazily above, doing jack shit to cool the stuffy room. My tank top’s stuck to my skin with dried sweat, and I can smell the stale booze and cigarettes clinging to me from last night’s shift at The Gentleman’s Club.
As I lie there, the memory of D leaving me high and dry in the alley behind the club floods back.That pussy-ass punk. My body still thrums with leftover lust and frustration.
“Goddamn tease,” I hiss, clenching my thighs together. What kind of asshole gets a girl all worked up and then just fucks off like nothing happened?
“Urgh…” I growl, forcing myself to sit up. The room spins for a second, and I have to grip the edge of the mattress to steady myself.
My gaze lands on the ratty duffel bag in the corner, stuffed with my work clothes from the club. I should wash that shit, but the thought of trudging to the laundromat makes me want to crawl back under the covers and never come out.
Instead, I stumble to my feet, nearly tripping over the pile of nursing textbooks stacked haphazardly by my bed. My eyes linger on the worn spines, the reminder of a dream I can’t afford to chase.Pediatric nursing. What a fucking joke. As if I’d ever have the time or money to go back to school.
I run my fingers over the top book, a thick tome on child development. Swiped it from my friend Tanya when she dropped out last semester. Said I could keep it, like it was some kind of consolation prize.
“One day,” I mutter, but the words taste bitter in my mouth.
Who am I kidding?
Deep down, I know it’s never going to happen.With my old man’s drunk ass and bills piling up faster than corpses in a slasher flick, when the hell would I ever find time to study? Between juggling three jobs, playing mommy to my siblings, and trying to keep our shit-heap of an apartment from falling apart, I’m lucky if I can remember my own name most days. Forget about cracking open a textbook. The American Dream? More like the American Nightmare, population: me and every other poor sucker born on the wrong side of the tracks.
Shaking off the useless daydream, I kick the books aside and shuffle to the tiny bathroom. The flickering fluorescent lightsputters to life, revealing a face in the mirror that looks like warmed-over death.
“You look like shit, Wren,” I mutter to my reflection. Dark circles under my eyes, smudged makeup, and hair that looks like I stuck my finger in a socket. Add in the sexual frustration written all over my face.
