I didn’t see him again until just a few days ago, when I moved into my brother’s house. But I thought about him.
Every fucking day.
I thought about that night. And everything he did and said to me.
It was mean, gross… and grotesquely intriguing. I couldn’t stop thinking about it… and not because it upset me.
Nope.
I’d accepted the uncomfortable truth long ago—that it totally turned me on. Every time I touched myself, I thought about the look on his face when he’d said those words to me.
Should I fuck that mouth of yours…?
The way his eyelids got heavy and his eyes softened, burning into me.
… or should I bend you over the seat?
Just fucking once, he’d really looked at me.
Don’t try to bite off more than you can chew, sweetheart.
I could still remember everything about the way he looked, the way he breathed, when he squeezed his dick in front of me.
You might choke.
When I thought about it now, I slid my hand between my legs. I knew it was an empty threat. He wasn’t going to do anything.
He didn’t really want me.
But…
I imagined his dick in my mouth. I imagined his hands on my body. I thought of that look in his eyes. I touched myself, and I pictured him, looking at me that way he did.
I couldn’t even help it.
I just had to get off, so the ache would go away.
But it never really did.
* * *
Afterward, I found tears on my cheeks. I was a panting, sweaty mess, and I’d made myself come three times.
I’d told Xander I was fine, and I was.
More or less.
The whole truth was I didn’t even know what to feel. I felt too many things, and somehow… not enough.
I wanted to feel less about Xander.
Way fucking less.
I wanted to feel more about Joseph Fetterman. About his death.
But I didn’t feel any of the right things.
I never had.
