“Is everything okay?”
I can tell by his tone he knows he’s not getting an answer, but it was nice of him to ask anyway. He’s a nice guy. This is a nice place, full of normal people. I really don’t belong here, but it’ll do for what I need to get done.
“Can I get a beer?” I ask instead of responding to his question.
Gunnar just nods, pulling me a draft and leaving it in front of me. He doesn’t linger, which is good because I can’t handle someone that observant right now. I already feel like all my thoughts and feelings and rationality have jumped the track; I don’t need the most stable, reasonable man in Possum Hollow standing next to me as some sort of demonic juxtaposition to really hammer home how fucked I am.
My fingers drum on the bar without me being totally aware of it, and my heart is already hammering in my chest.
Picking up girls should be easy for me. I’m tall. I’m hot. A lot of girls, especially the kind of girls you can pick up in bars, love an alpha male type. But for me, it’s always been layered in all this stress about what’s gonna happen when I finally get her naked and whether my worthless dick is going to cooperate this time, or if this will be the time word gets back to my father about yet another one of my failings.
It puts me too in my head. I think I’m good at disguising it, but still. Except right now it’s even worse, because I can’t focus on anything except where Micah might be right now and whether or not he’s safe.
Well, half of me is worried about him being safe, the other half is still so fucking furious about how he shoved his attitude in my face that I’ll do anything to one up him.
Including getting over my distaste for what’s about to happen.
A few minutes later though, a girl with a nice face and a low-cut shirt catches my eye from across the bar, and I swallow down all that distaste to focus on what really matters. Showing Micah who’s in charge here.
The girl is writhingand moaning underneath me, but I can tell she’s not into it. The fact that she’s faking it is only making things harder for me.
We’re in Bambi’s bed. It only took me a couple hours to pick someone up, and either his date is going well or he’s in the process of being fucking murdered, because he still isn’t back. Maybe he was all talk, and they decided to go back to the other guy’s house after all.
The thought distracts me. Which is annoying as hell, because this girl is a find. She’s got dark hair, big, pretty eyes that look even bigger with all the eyeliner she’s wearing, and a tight little body that fits easily in my hands. I could tell she was into me as soon as we locked eyes back at the bar, and she made it explicitly clear that she was also looking for a no-strings hookup. In theory, I was more than happy to oblige. But now that we’re here, everything’s falling apart.
She keeps pulling me into kisses, which is distracting and frankly not why we’re here. Kissing has never been something I enjoyed. Putting your mouth on someone else’s mouth is just kind of weird. I always feel like it seems like I’m about to eat them.
We finally got down to business, but now I’m on top of her and I’m already crawling into my own head. Maybe I shouldn’t have made her come before we started fucking. I thought itwould be polite, but instead it’s making it harder to keep her interest. I’ve got one hand working her clit, the other propping me up and I’m pounding into her, but the slightly glazed look in her eye and the hint of fakeness to her noises is making me want to flee the situation, and my dick is getting the message.
It’s always ready to bounce at a moment’s notice. The second something feels off, it’s like all the blood abandons ship. I can feel the telltale start ofnothingnessthat normally precedes it giving up on me, and I put all my concentration into keeping myself in the moment.
The tight, wet heat of her around me. How good it feels to touch someone’s bare skin. The rhythmic pumping, in and out.
I bury my face in her neck, trying to make the world narrow in so I can focus, but she’s wearing a super sweet perfume. It clashes with the lingering scent of Micah’s fancy, citrusy aftershave and makes things even worse.
The girl—Chelsea, thank fuck I remember her name—is giving an A+ for effort performance though. She digs her fingernails into my back, scraping them down hard enough to send pain radiating through me and jolt some life back into my sex drive.
“Oh yeah, that’s it, right there, fuck me harder, Daddy!” she moans in a cheesy porno voice.
Oh fuck. I appreciate that she’s trying, but not the Daddy shit. I can’t handle it.
To distract her, I pull out, quickly manhandling her until she’s on her stomach and then thrusting back in. I can tell she’s the kind of girl who likes to be thrown around a little, and I don’t really give a fuck at this point, but at least she’s little enough it’s not putting too much of a strain on my injury site.
I ignore the lingering soreness, focusing on the way she arches her back and pushes her ass toward me.
Digging my fingers into her hip, I stare at where my cock is tunneling into her and try to let all the sensations get through to me. I chase away every lingering anxiety in my brain and reach for that teasing trail of arousal that’s curling somewhere inside of me. It’s a slippery fucker, but I can grab onto it. I know I can. I just have to concentrate.
“Yeah, Daddy, harder!”
Fuck, Chelsea, shut up. I’m trying to concentrate.
The door to the apartment slams open, making me jump so hard I break rhythm for a second. Great. Just what I need: more distractions.
When I came up with this plan—in a moment of short-sighted anger, I’ll admit—I was having glorious, epic sex that was going to show him who the real man here was. Not this shitshow of borderline wilting erections and Chelsea running her mouth.
At least I know he’s not dead, I guess.
But based on the sounds drifting in from the living room, not only did he not get murdered, his date is going a hell of a lot better than mine is. I can hear the thuds of clothes and shoes being kicked off, and it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t even try to use the bedroom. He wasn’t even fazed by the mess I left in the living room, apparently.
