Or, at least, that’s what I told myself two days ago when I sent him the photo taken from a low angle—half my face in the frame, a girl’s ass parked on my thigh, a guy’s hand sliding beneath my shirt through the undone buttons.
What?
The only weapon I have to mess with Vaughn’s head is me tangled up with other people. He fuckinghatesit. I know because almost every time he’s gotten in my face, it’s been when I was touching someone else or even mentioned it.
And maybe I resort to this method because I fucking enjoy the string of possessiveness he shows a bit too much. Would give my left nut just to see that rage consuming him.
Alas, no nut will be sacrificed, because his reply was anticlimactic as fuck.
Mishka
These games don’t work on me. Grow up.
Then he proceeded to ignore me.
So I threw another party and sent him ten thousand pictures and videos. Okay, the actual number is maybe a hundred or so, but you get the idea.
I’m going to annoy the fuck out of him until he stops with the games, because he’s the one who’s playing them, not me.
I don’t even knowhowto play games. I’m direct to a fault—if I want something, I go for it. If I have something on my mind, I say it.
The only time I find myself counting my every breath, word, and step is when that guy is around.
I just don’t understand him half the time. He runs hot and cold in ways I can’t fathom.
He’s the one who cornered me at that event, kissed me senseless, and refused to leave until we found Alina. Then he was checking on me, texting almost daily.
But soon after he was no longer under house arrest, the attention fizzled out.
The mixed signals are giving me whiplash, but like someone suffering from a fucking chronic disease, I keep pathologically checking my conversation with him, searching for any sliver of his attention.
Pathetic.
I need to get a fucking grip and move on.
Now, if my brain can subscribe to that notion, that would be fantastic.
So here I am, sprawled out on the couch while the Serpents’ mansion thrums with EDM, bass shaking throughthe walls. The lights glow dim and red, just enough cover for everyone to lose themselves in the dark.
I let myself drift, floating in the hedonistic haze, hoping it’ll ease the pressure clawing at me.
It doesn’t.
Maybe I should’ve gone to the underground ring tonight instead.
What also sucks is Cy’s absence. He isn’t a huge fan of these parties, so he’s probably hiding in his room. That is, if he didn’t fuck out of the mansion to do whatever obscure rituals he doesn’t tell me about.
Kevin, Hannah, and Lyra, who’ve been draped all over me, drag me onto the dance floor. I take my beer with me as we shoulder through the throngs of people.
They’re kind of my favorite trio to fuck. Sometimes all at once. Hannah and Lyra are a couple but keep it open, which means I get invited in whenever they’re in the mood. Kevin’s usually there to get railed by me while they put on a show. Then I switch to Lyra, because Hannah gets off on watching her, and Lyra gets off on being fucked.
Now, it’s been ages since I indulged in that harmless fun, mostly because my dick has grown addiction issues to a certain grouchy prick.
Lyra hooks her arms around my waist from behind, craning to make out with Hannah as Kevin grinds into me from the front. It passes for dancing, but really, it’s just him rutting against my leg.
Does my cock notice? I stare down and sigh.
The answer is no.
