Chapter Eight
KIT
Every morning this week, I’ve woken with a throbbing cock and a hankering for honey. A busy week at work doesn’t cool the need—same for extra sessions at the gym. It’s starting to piss me off that I can’t get the woman out of my head.
I want to feel her come around something other than my fingers. I want the taste of her in my mouth and her sweat-darkened hair wrapped around my fist as I feed my dick down her throat inch by slow inch.
I’ve had obsessions before but not for a while. And none as dangerous as this. In fact, in the past, I’ve gone to great pains to make sure I keep my life compartmentalised. To keep my professional and personal lives from entwining in any way. Apart from the fact I don’t care to explain my sexual proclivities, it wouldn’t do for word to get out for me professionally. To Rory, I’m gay, and he doesn’t care.Doesn’t care to enquire, either.To the rest of the word, I’m just a hard nut to crack.
I take care of the day-to-day running of our hotel business. I’m the face of the operation, and it’s for that reason I like to keep my private life just that.Until I’m behind the doors of the Den.
As a business, we attract some attention, but it’s mostly low-grade stuff. As men, we’re often featured in the social and business pages. We get pap’d occasionally. It’s because we’re not only successful and rich but also because we’re twins.
Because we look so alike.
Once not so long ago, Rory revelled in the pussy that seemed to be available because of these facts. Because we’re rich, handsome, and move in the right circles. It didn’t help with his decision making for a while.
Thankfully, he’s done with all that now.
And me? I’m a vault.
Sure, I get hit on plenty, but I try not to fuck where I earn my keep. Not that I’m an angel, and though I try to keep it at the club, sometimes it just isn’t feasible.Or what I want.Sometimes you want an elaborate, drawn-out meal with courses that continue for hours, including delicacies you wouldn’t ordinarily try. And other times, you just want to grab something that’s potentially bad for you.
Usually in a dark alley and following a few drinks.
The analogy works for sex, too.
Not that I’m blaming my debauching of Bea on drinking because when I’d led her to the end of that hallway in the club, the only thing I was drunk on was her perfume. I don’t regret it. Only now I can’t get her out of my fucking head.
She’s like an itch I can’t reach—a craving I can’t satisfy. An itch I can’t reach. Not that I won’t try.
I’ve never had any issues getting women into my bed, and yesterday at dinner, I thought I’d had her eating out of my palm.In addition to coming on my hand in the club.She was turned on, that was clear enough. Flushed chest, huge dilated pupils stealing the golden flecks in her gaze. As her fingers strangled the life out of a paper napkin, her knuckles were as pale as the full bottom lip she’d trapped between her teeth.
She was up for it.
She might even be kinky underneath those scrubs.
I fucking crave her.
And I want more than ever to know her real name.
