I can’t stop hearing his words in my head, or recalling the way my body reacted when he got all up in my space…or how I came so close to losing it and just grinding up against him.
A wave of heat floods my body and I hastily scoop up more cereal.
“You want to feel your power stripped away from you, be made to submit to someone else’s control.”
My cock twitches as arousal tingles through me, launching a fresh wave of confusion and denial. I don’t understand how recalling those words could possibly turn me on. I mean, I don’t really understand any of this, but those words in particular… I’m not a submissive person; I might not be a cocksure, arrogant bastard like someone else I know but there’s sure as hell nothing meek or biddable about me.
“…you get off on being toyed with, and tormented, and dominated, and pushed to the brink.”
Fuck, I really need to get a grip. My cock is throbbing now and I’m pretty sure I just groaned.
I startle as I see fingers snapping in front of my face; and the reminder that I’m currently in Blake and Owen’s kitchen, with my brother standing mere feet away from me, is the dousing of cold water I desperately needed. Thankfully the kitchen counter is between us, hiding the situation in my pants.
“You okay?” he asks, brow furrowed with concern.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Well, you looked like you were trying to challenge Sauron through your cereal there.”
I stare at him in confusion for a moment before letting out a groan when I finally clock theLord of the Ringsreference. “Fuck, you’re such a nerd. But I’m flattered by the Viggo Mortensen comparison.”
“You seemed very intense is all I’m saying,” Blake comments.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” I assure him. “I’m just a bit tired, I guess. It’s been a busy weekend, and I didn’t sleep well last night.” I slide from my stool and round the counter to place my bowl in the dishwasher, trying not to think about the reason for my sleepless night.
“Well, at least you’ve got some time off to look forward to,” he says brightly.
I smile as I think about the twins’ impending visit for Thanksgiving weekend, which I wrangled time off for before I’d even started my first shift at Whiskey Tango. “Yeah. Just need to get through tonight first.”
A blast of nervous energy rushes through me at the prospect of seeing Jazz again after that conversation in the bathroom last night. He said he wouldn’t text or call but he said nothing about toning down his inappropriate songs, and after last night’s set I can’t even imagine what he has in store for me tonight…
But it’s just one shift. Five hours. I can manage that, no problem. And after tonight I won’t have tosee him until next Sunday—that’s almost an entire Jazz-free week. The perfect opportunity to detox from this insanity.
Jazz was unexpectedlyabsent on Monday night, which I should have been thrilled about but instead I spent my entire shift in a state of inexplicable agitation.
By Wednesday I feel like I’m going out of my fucking mind. It’s the third morning in a row I’ve woken to a blank phone screen and a churning sensation in my gut that I can no longer pretend is anything other than disappointment. My mission to detox has been a miserable failure; instead of the relief and peace of mind I’d hoped for, I feel edgy and out of control.
The only time I feel any semblance of calm is when I scroll down the list of recent texts on my phone just so I can reread that filthy exchange from Sunday morning. I don’t know how the hell this happened to me. This time last week I was normal. And now I’m this fucked up creep, using crude text messages fromanother fucked up creep like a nicotine patch. And it’s barely working.
So it’shardly surprising that when I emerge from the bathroom after a shower on Wednesday morning to hear my phone chiming with a text I practically vault across the bed in my haste to reach my nightstand. But my spirits plummet when I see it’s not a filthy text from Jazz; and right on the heels of the disappointment is a burning sense of shame and guilt, because the text is from Joel.
How could I possibly—even for a microsecond—be disappointed to hear from my son?
Joel Forrester
Hey Dad, I won’t be coming to the city until tomorrow after all. I just got invited to the Dean’s Thanksgiving reception!
My brows shoot up in surprise. Not that I think my son isn’t worthy of recognition from the Dean—he’s smart as hell and he’s extremely dedicated to his studies—but he’s a Freshman and this is Princeton we’re talking about. My guess is he managed to wrangle a last-minute invite as someone’s plus one. Even so, this is an amazing opportunity for him.
Me
That’s awesome buddy! Have a great time - looking forward to hearing all about it tomorrow
I set my phone down and stride over to my closet. As I’m getting dressed the thought occurs to me that with Ava already planning to travel from Boston tomorrow morning my reason for scheduling tonight off work no longer exists.
I considerthe situation for a moment before ultimately deciding to text Gia about possibly picking up a shift tonight. I could definitely use the extra tips, and considering this cold turkey approach clearly isn’t working I think it’s important I sort this shit out with Jazz before the kids get here.
He told me to figure out what I want and I think it’s pretty clear after the past few days that I want more dirty text messages and more phone calls—I can’t explain why I want it, but I’m done trying to convince myself otherwise. I also know what I don’t want, though; I don’t want to do any BDSM stuff—Valerie and I tried it once after she sawFifty Shades of Grayand it really didn’t go well. But even putting that aside, I’m not a masochist and certainly not an emotional one. It just doesn’t make sense.
