It’s a lethal combination, made worse by the fact that Gabriel always seems to know exactly how to get me exactly where I need to be. Except this time, he refused to let me come.
Who fucking does that?
What man in their right mind, who looks like that, and carries that kind of power in his hands, brings a woman right to the edge only to pull away so that she craves him even more?
Gabriel.
A guy who I didn’t think existed outside of fiction. His voice… the dirty talking… the tenderness… then the roughness. It’s a lethal combination and one that I can’t quite wrap my mind around. He’s kind and thoughtful (builds me a table; helps me get past my aversion to men), then possessive and jealous (fucks me with my underwear on, comes inside me without letting me finish, then tells me to enjoy my date with another man.)
It's a mind-fuck that I need time to process but don’t get achance to. Because here I am, gripping the steering wheel, driving to meet someone new while my body still remembers the way Gabriel made me feel.
Fuck my life.
Every time I press the gas pedal of my car, another slow, humiliating trickle of his cum seeps out of me, soaking through my thong and into the thin fabric of my black dress. A dress he zipped up. A dress he smoothed over my hips before sending me out into the cold outdoors, smug as hell like he knows I’ll come back to him.
There was no way in hell I was taking an Uber like this. And walking in this weather wasn’t a choice. Not with the mess he left inside me. Not with the way I still feel him there—his cock, his fingers, his mouth—all of it is a throbbing, aching reminder of what he just did to me. Of what hedidn’tlet me finish.
Because he had to prove a point. I swear, he had to have blown the biggest load in the history of mankind inside of me. Like he knew what he was doing and did it on purpose. Like he made sure I’d be dripping with it, walking into this damn date to meet another guy with his cum sliding out of me.
And I hate that his plan worked. I hate that with every drip, every gush, I’m getting even more turned on knowing that he’s at his house waiting for me.
By the time I pull into the parking lot of the bar—the one I work at, of course—I’m gripping the steering wheel like it’s going to keep me from screaming and crying at the same time.
I should just go home. I should take care of this myself. I could slip into bed with my vibrator and pretend it’s him; pretend I don’t know exactly how much better the real thing feels. Get myself off and then clean myself up. But that would mean letting him win.
And I get his point. If I need a release, he’s right there. I know that. He made it painfully clear. But I need him to see my pointtoo.
I’m trying to look at men differently now. Trying to view relationships differently. I’m trying to be open and soft to the potential of loving someone new again. I’m trying to remind myself that there’s more to intimacy than what Gabriel and I just did on his freaking rug.
So that’s why I need to do this. I need to go on this date to remind myself that the physical stuff is good, it’simportant,but so is connection. Emotional connection, trust and vulnerability are even more important to me. I’m doing this to remind myself that all men aren’t shitty people who are out to hurt you.
I exhale sharply, unclench my thighs, and step out of the car. The dry, winter air bites at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the slow, warm trickle of liquid between my legs as I take a step.
I force my spine straight, smooth my dress—gritting my teeth as I feel another gush slide down my inner thigh—and then I push through the doors of Brookhaven Brews. The bar is alive with music, conversation, the low hum of a Friday night crowd that I’m usually here working, not walking into as a customer.
It feels weird to be here again when the last time I was here on a date was with Gabriel. Like stepping into a world that I don’t fully belong to.
Loud, country music plays from the stereo while I scan the room and find the guy who matches the profile picture from the dating app I downloaded last night. He stands, and I take him in. He’s tall. Classically handsome. Sandy blond hair, kind green eyes. A strong build, the kind that says he probably lifts heavy things for a living which checks out with the whole construction career.
He looks…nice.
Like the kind of guy who wouldn’t fuck me raw just to make apoint even though I asked him to.
Like the kind of guy who wouldn’t leave me desperate and dripping on my way to a date with another guy.
He opens his arms for a hug just as I reach for a handshake, and there’s an awkward beat before I correct myself, stepping into his arms. It’s warm. He smells… nice. It’s different. And it immediately reminds me that the last time I was in a man’s arms was—Five seconds ago with Gabriel.
My breathing struggles, my body going stiff for half a beat while I try to catch up. Because Gabriel hugs differently. Holds differently. There’s nothing tentative about the way Gabriel touches me. There’s no hesitation when he wrapped me into his arms as I cried in my shower, no second-guessing his actions. He’s confident in everything that he does, even if it’s not something I like.
I hate that my body reacts to this with a thought about him. That I still feel the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin, even as another man wraps his arms around me.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Alessia.”
I smile. “You too.” I’ve already forgotten his name and that makes me feel even shittier.
“You been here before?” he pulls back and releases me, his gaze dragging over my dress with eyes that say he likes what I’m wearing a lot. Well, at least I got one thing right tonight.
“Yes,” I say smoothly, sliding into my seat that he pulls out for me. “I work here part time.”
