Sunday, I switched tactics, heading to the campus library to make sure I’m prepared for my third-year paramedic classes, which start tomorrow. I didn’t absorb a single fucking word, and when I got home, I had yet another long shower.
Yesterday, Coach Johnson worked us to the bone at our last preseason fitness session, and despite being dead tired with every muscle in my body screaming, there was one that was still harder than granite when I closed my eyes and pictured her.
I step under the water, already rock-hard. Knowing I don’t have long, I soap up my body then close my eyes, conjuring up the image of my pixie that’s seared in my brain as I grip my cock and give ita firm squeeze.
A muttered curse slips free, and I bite down so hard I taste blood—I won’t last long. My hand slicks up and down my pierced shaft as I recall her soft mouth pressed to my lips and the sweet taste of her tongue as it tangled with mine. I work myself over, picturing the way her mesmerising eyes glazed over with lust when we finally pulled apart. She was just as affected by our kiss as I was.
My forehead drops to the slick tiles as my balls draw up, letting me know I’m close. Pleasure coils in the base of my spine, and I grunt as my dick jerks, spraying the wall and my abs with my release.
A humourless laugh escapes, and I shake my head as I clean up my mess and finish my shower. This is pathetic. I don’t even know who this woman is. Not to mention, I have no way of finding out either. She truly is the mythical creature I’ve nicknamed her.
After stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around my waist, I stare into the mirror at my expression—cheeks flushed, pupils blown, a small cut on my bottom lip. This mysterious stranger has fucked with my head, and all we did was kiss.
It’s for the best that I have no way of contacting her. She doesn’t need my level of fucked up in her life.
My eyes trail down to the ink scattered over my chest and arms. Every mark on my body tells a story of my dark past, even the ones I wish I could forget. I twist to see the phoenix rising from the flames on my right bicep, my gaze drifting down to the lifelike hand reaching for the skeletal one on my forearm. As much as I try to move on from the skeletons in my closet, there’s no changing what I’ve done and the ripple effect itcaused.
As if summoning my past with my self-loathing and dark thoughts, my phone lights up with an incoming call from Tori.
“Yo, Logan,” Everett shouts up the stairs. “Dinner’s ready.”
With a sigh, I ignore the call and rush to get dressed in sweatpants and a Beckford U singlet before jogging downstairs, where Everett and Tinsley are sitting at the small dining table that separates the living room from the kitchen.
I tousle her blonde curls as I pass, and swipe a bread roll off the plate in the middle of the table, shoving it into my mouth.
It’s denser than normal bread, heavier in my mouth, and I chew a few times, clearing my throat before reaching for a glass of water to wash it down.
“I think the bread might be stale,” I say.
Everett snorts. “It’s gluten-free. Pipsqueak is allergic to dairy and gluten.”
My brows shoot up. “Yet you made pasta?”
“Gluten-free pasta,” he says, like I’m stupid.
I glance down at the bowl in front of me, wondering if it’s too late to order take away.
“Eat your dinner, Blake,” he emphasises, nodding at Tinsley when I look up. She’s watching me with a curious look on her little face. “It’s not as bad as the bread.”
I hesitate a moment before picking up my fork and twirling pasta around it. Tinsley picks up hers, copying me, and a grin tugs at my lips. I shovel the food into my mouth, and surprisingly, it’s not as bad as I was expecting.
“Does she have anaphylaxis?” I ask, recalling what I’velearnt in class about life-threatening allergies. “Dairy is a pretty complex allergy. There’re traces of it in a lot of things.”
Everett nods. “Her EpiPen is in her backpack.”
“Good to know.”
I’ve seen quite a few cases of anaphylaxis in children during my clinical placements. It’s pretty scary to see kids so listless and gasping for breath.
“What’s new with you, Sprout?” I ask Tinsley.
She crinkles her brow at me.
“What did you do today?”
“Rett picked me up from preschool and we went to the park,” she says, beaming at her big brother. “I went down the big slide four hundred times.”
“Four hundred?” I say in exaggerated amazement, matching her enthusiasm. “No way. That’s so cool.”
