Текст книги "Screwed"

Автор книги: Kendall Ryan

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Chapter Eight

Emery

 

On Friday evening, I walk to Rico’s Taquería with a plan to scarf down dinner in twenty minutes and hightail it back to work. But as soon as I sit down with a cold beer and a hot quesadilla, the fatigue of my first week suddenly all comes crashing down on me. I must have been running on pure adrenaline for a while now. The office was almost deserted when I left, anyway, so I decide to call it an early day and head home. After polishing off the huge quesadilla and a beer, I’m more than ready for the weekend.

I’ve just taken off my shoes when someone knocks on my condo door. I open up to see Roxy. Her outfit tonight is even more memorable than the one I first saw her in. Tonight she’s wearing a skin-tight leopard-print minidress with side cutouts and matching platform stilettos.

She gives me a little wave. “Hey, girl,” she sings. “Want to hang out sometime? I meant to ask you sooner, but this past week has been nuts. Desiree got food poisoning, so Angelique and I had to take over her shifts.”

Still feeling loose and carefree from a good time with Hayden, I answer on impulse. “Is now a good time? I’m not doing anything.” The night is still young, after all. Even if I can barely translate legalese right now, I have enough energy and focus for casual chatting. A little girl talk sounds like fun.

Roxy raises her penciled eyebrows in pleasant surprise. “Awesome. Wait a sec, I’ll bring over a bottle of wine. You like red or white?”

I shrug. “Whatever is fine.”

She leaves and comes back in a few minutes with a big bottle of local Shiraz. As she sets it down on the dining table, she asks, “Mind if I smoke?”

“Um . . .” I look around my fresh-smelling, pale-carpeted place. “Let’s sit on the balcony.”

We grab two wineglasses and a corkscrew and go outside. The moon is almost full; the stars twinkling invisibly in the sky are reflected in the city lights below us. I pour the wine while Roxy lights up.

The night is calm and she tries to exhale away from me, but sometimes a gentle breeze still catches her smoke and makes me splutter a little. The smell is faintly nostalgic. Dad used to sit out on the porch and smoke a pipe in the evenings. Although he was gone by the time I was two years old—and even though the smoking probably helped kill him—the scent of tobacco sometimes reminds me of Mom’s stories. She always talks so affectionately about him, it’s like he just stepped out for a moment.

Roxy takes a long drag and sighs it out in feathery white tendrils. “So how’s the Golden Coast treatin’ ya?”

I start recounting my first week in Los Angeles. Mostly my shiny new job, since I’m still starstruck about working for an actual law firm, and I’ve done almost nothing but work since I got here. Not that I mind practically living at the office.

I’ll probably repeat most of this stuff to Hayden over dinner tomorrow, minus the goriest details about Larry The Creeper. It’s stupid, and I know it’s stupid, but I still feel embarrassed about how I let my boss treat me . . . and how I intend to let him continue treating me, all for the sake of keeping my job. I don’t know what would be worse—Hayden failing to see what the big deal is about Mr. Pratt’s behavior, or Hayden demanding to know where he lives so he can kill him in his sleep.

So it’s nice to talk to a woman who can really commiserate about the problem without trying to play Mr. Fix-It. Roxy cackles and grimaces in all the right spots of my stories. As good a friend as Hayden is becoming, there are some things that most men just don’t understand.

“I think changing my outfit helped a little,” I say as I finish. “Flats instead of heels, pink lip gloss instead of red lipstick, dress pants instead of a skirt. And a camisole under my blouse to make sure there’s no cleavage showing.” Not that Mr. Pratt hasn’t looked for it. He practically broke his neck trying to see down my collar at the Wednesday lunch meeting.

“So has he stopped touching your ass and acting like it’s an accident?”

“No, but he does it less often. Although he’s started dropping all these passive-aggressive comments, like ‘Where’s the funeral, har de har?’ or ‘Oh, you looked so sweet before, what happened?’ Or my personal favorite, ‘You don’t need to dress like a nun, sweetheart. You should enjoy that amazing figure while it lasts.’ So I consider it a mini victory.”

“What a douchebag.” Roxy rolls her eyes. “I’ve had gross customers before, but I knew what I was getting into when I started working at Kitty Queen’s. You didn’t bust your hump in college just to put up with some old perv. And strip joints have a bouncer who can step in if someone gets too rowdy. At your job, you’re on your own. Worse than on your own, actually, since the problem is with the guy who’s supposed to protect you. Not that I haven’t had a few handsy bosses before . . .”

When she first told me she was a stripper, I barely batted an eyelash. Once you meet her, it seems the most obvious profession in the world for her. She’s outgoing, gorgeous, and confident, with just a hint of being a wild child. The only thing that surprised me was that she didn’t use a more subdued euphemism, like dancer or exotic entertainer or something. Then again, there’s nothing subdued about Roxy.

I swallow my mouthful of wine. It isn’t great—not far from the realm of two-buck Chuck—but it’s loosened me up just fine. “Sometimes I think you can never win with men,” I add.

“Words of goddamn wisdom.” Roxy gives a huff of acrid laughter, smoke pouring from her nose. It reminds me of the femme fatale from some noir film. Or a dragon wearing expensive lingerie.

Wow, I think I’m getting a little drunk. Maybe that’s why I suddenly feel the urge to talk about Hayden. “Sometimes they aren’t so bad, though.”

“You mean for decoration? Boys do make great accessories.” She nods, her chandelier earrings bouncing.

“No, I mean . . . I’ve been hanging out with Hayden, and he’s actually pretty cool. We do yoga together almost every morning now. And tomorrow, he’s going to a vegetarian restaurant with me, even though he’s clearly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.” I realize that a silly little smile is pulling at the corners of my mouth. It’s so odd. When I hang out with him, I have a mysterious sort of glow for the rest of the day. He makes me laugh, and heaven knows I could use a good laugh with the seriousness of my job.

“It’s great that he hasn’t screwed you over yet,” Roxy says, her tone abruptly tense. “But he’s still bad news. Ask any of the girls here.”

“He’s been a perfect gentleman so far.” Well, not perfect, but good enough for government work. “We’re just workout buddies.”

“You think he’s your friend? Sorry to burst your bubble, hon, but he doesn’t bother with women for anything other than the obvious. He’s working for a reward that starts with ‘p’ and ends with ‘ussy.’ Get out while you still can.”

Once again, I wonder where all this barely suppressed rage is coming from. But mostly I’m annoyed. Roxy is talking down to me like I’m some naive country girl who doesn’t know her ass from third base. I’ve met my share of shitty men, thank you very much, and I like to think I can see them coming by now. I’m old enough to make my own decisions and smart enough not to get in over my head. Plus, for once in my life, I want to do something really impractical—like own a convertible in Seattle. I want to say fuck it and just have fun.

“I know he’s a player,” I say, a little more testily than I intended. “I knew that when I started hanging out with him. A guy doesn’t have to be perfect if all I’m after is a casual friend. It’s not like we’re getting married—it’s just nice to have someone to eat with sometimes.”

That’s part of the reason why Hayden can be so refreshing. Neither of us has to be perfect. We don’t even have to act perfect. We aren’t putting on performances or evaluating each other. We can just enjoy the good parts of each other’s personalities and not bother stressing over the bad parts.

At the same time, though, a little voice in my head whispers, Maybe Roxy is right. I can’t help but remember how obviously Hayden was lying when he said that he had female friends. Both the truth and the fact that he lied about it are potential bad signs.

I try to ignore that nagging voice as I finish my point. “I’m not under the delusion that my magic vagina will cure his no-good womanizin’ ways. I just escaped Boyfriend Hell; I won’t go back to see if it’s frozen over since the last time I checked. I’m on a no-man diet until further notice. So if Hayden does try to get into my pants, I’ll tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree, and he can either stay one hundred percent platonic or fuck off.” I look up at Roxy with close attention. “Unless you’re trying to tell me to look out for roofies in my drink?”

“No, no . . . Hayden’s nothing like that.” She drops her cigarette butt and grinds it into a small blackened blotch with the pointed toe of her shoe. “He’s purely small-time. More than bad enough to make you feel sorry for yourself afterward, but not enough for anyone else to feel sorry for you.”

More and more questions are jostling into my head, so I choose one of the least nosy ones. “If he’s so horrible, then why do you live in his building?”

Her fuchsia-painted lips tighten into a line. “I’d already lived here for years when Hayden bought it. The fact that he ended up being my landlord is total coincidence.”

“So move out and find a better place.”

An even harder edge enters the set of her mouth. Pure bitter stubbornness. “Why should I be punished for his B.S.? I was here first, and I’m not going anywhere when I didn’t do anything wrong. It’ll take a lot more than one annoying asshole to push me out of my own home.”

Okay, okay, I think, nodding at her a few times. Defensive much?

My impression of the real Hayden is nothing like what Roxy said when I first moved in. Sure, he’s a horn-dog and he seems kind of immature, but he’s fun, and I can’t deny his eye-candy appeal. I almost giggle when I remember him trying to get into the downward dog position. What harm could there be in just hanging out with him? Is his laid-back playfulness really nothing but a Jekyll-and-Hyde act, lulling me into a false sense of security? Or could Roxy just be overreacting?

When I asked Hayden for the dirt on him and Roxy, he flat-out refused to go into it, which just makes my imagination run wild. Is Roxy the villain of that story, I wonder, or is Hayden? I try to dismiss the thought. Real life is rarely so cut-and-dried.

But my curiosity about what relationship they had is still driving me nuts. Roxy is so insistent that Hayden doesn’t “do” friendships with women, so if they ever were friends, Hayden must have let his lust get in the way somehow.

Are they ex-lovers? For all I know, she could be his sister. I kind of hope so. For some reason, the thought of Hayden sleeping with this woman bothers me, even though his sex life is none of my business. Even though I shouldn’t care whether or not Roxy, with her inflatable boobs and pancake makeup and a beach body way nicer than mine, is his “type.” Because if she is, I most definitely am not—with my closet full of suits and no-nonsense bras and panties.

I put down my wineglass, shaking my head. What’s wrong with me? Just thinking of Roxy like that makes me feel like a huge bitch. She went out of her way to befriend the new girl on the block, came over here to share wine she bought with her own hard-earned money—which she probably had to pick out of her butt crack after a long night of dancing—and here I am being catty.

Other women are not the enemy, I remind myself. But I can’t shake this territorial feeling. Hearing her badmouth Hayden pisses me off, and not just because it implies that I’m too dumb to realize I’m walking into a trap.

Screw it. At the risk of opening a can of worms, I ask, “So, just what is your deal with Hayden, anyway? What happened to make you hate him so much?” If Hayden won’t satisfy my curiosity, maybe Roxy will be interested in dishing dirt. She certainly seems to have strong feelings in need of venting.

She goes very still, her hand halfway to tapping another cigarette out of its pack. I already regret my question a little; mixed in with Roxy’s expression of loathing, I catch a glimpse of something dark, like grief. Or maybe it’s shame.

Finally she mutters, “We used to date. Beyond that, let’s just say he made a mistake and tried to dump the consequences on me.”

So they were lovers. She must have been one of Hayden’s many one-night stands. Just another conquest. I sit back, taking a long drink of wine while I try to think of a response. Roxy’s vague answer hasn’t really cleared up anything, and I feel bad for asking her in the first place.

In the end, I can’t think of anything to say other than, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Worry about yourself, sweetie . . . I’m just trying to protect you.” Roxy reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, careful not to jab me with her talons. Her dark, glitter-shadowed eyes are deadly serious. “I don’t want to see another girl get hurt by that tool. He’s a man-child and he’ll drag you down with him. He’s the center of the fucking universe—all that matters is what he wants, and to hell with everyone else. You’re a smart girl on your way to a great career. Don’t let him distract you. Don’t let him weasel in between you and what you want out of life. Don’t let him convince you that his shit is more important than yours. And he’ll try, believe me. He has a way of talking up into down and black into white. Women do what he wants while thinking it was all their own idea.”

At a loss, I nod soberly at her. “Okay.” It’s not a promise to take her words to heart; it’s not agreeing with anything. Just an acknowledgment that I’ve heard her.

She and I finish the bottle of wine in silence. I still think she’s being paranoid. Whatever happened between her and Hayden, it poisoned the well pretty damn good. But where did that contamination come from in the first place? From her or from him? Sometimes breakups are nobody’s fault at all. Without hearing the whole story, there’s no way for me to know how much weight to give Roxy’s warning. Even a first-year law student knows how much personal bias can distort a testimony.

I shake my head with a wry sigh; I’m already thinking about this in terms of depositions, evidence, and judgment. I should just unplug my brain entirely, turn the conversation to lighter things, and enjoy my impromptu night off. And tomorrow, I may even ask Hayden when we can hang out again.

I’m not going to stay away from my friend just because his bitter ex told me to. I’m a grown-ass woman; I can handle myself, even with a guy like him.

But I still can’t uproot the tiny seed of doubt that Roxy has planted.

Chapter Nine

Hayden

 

It’s five thirty on Saturday, just like we agreed, when I tromp down the stairs toward Emery’s place. I spent the day going over a proposal Hudson put together for a luxury condo building in Malibu. We’ve never owned anything on the coast before, but along with its sweeping ocean views, it boasts a hefty price tag too. Who knows, it may be worth it. Mostly, though, I spent the day glancing at the clock and wondering what Emery was up to while I waited for our non-date to roll around.

When I reach her door, it’s already open. “Hello?” I peer inside, not seeing her.

“Come on in,” she calls from somewhere inside.

Although one of the smallest models, it’s a nice unit, done in neutral colors¸ and with its tall ceilings and large windows, it feels a lot bigger than it is. I step across the wooden floors, my gaze cutting over to check the kitchen, then the living room with its sleek modern decor. Both are empty.

“Emery?” I call out, wondering what’s going on.

“In here. Just finishing up.”

I peek around the corner and see her. She’s standing in front of the mirror at her bedroom dresser, and though she’s facing away from me, I can see her reflection. She’s putting on earrings and it’s so simple, nothing really, yet I’m transfixed by her.

Dressed casually in jeans and a white tank top, her outfit says this is not a date. But the earrings she’s taking the time to put on tell me that she wants me to notice her as a woman, even if she’s said she doesn’t. This small act signals she’s every bit as aware as I am that there’s sexual chemistry simmering under the guise of our platonic state. When she turns to face me, her nipples are hardened into two little points, and the dangly gold earrings catch and shimmer in the light. But mostly it’s her nipples that I notice because, goddamn, her tits are perfect. A nice, perky mouthful.

“Ready?” she says, her voice soft as she stands there looking at me.

“Yeah.” I almost groan as I turn for the door. I’d rather cross the room toward her and toss her down onto her unmade bed. Something tells me we could have a lot of fun between the sheets. Or on the floor. Or in the shower. The image of Emery’s creamy skin slippery and wet makes my mouth water.

I use the drive to the restaurant to point out landmarks and celebrity hot spots to Emery. I keep forgetting she’s new in town. For some reason, it seems like she’s been here a lot longer than a week.

Sunflower Grill is little more than a counter with a chalkboard menu for ordering and a small cluster of tables outside on the sidewalk. Which is good. This isn’t a date, and it doesn’t feel like one. Being here with Emery actually makes me wonder when the last date I had was. A long damn time ago, apparently, since I can’t even remember. We order our food, each paying for ourselves, and then grab a table outside in the shade.

“How was week one on the new job?” I ask once we sit down. We’ve both ordered bottles of beer, and I’m glad to see her health kick doesn’t preclude her from indulging in alcohol.

“It’s actually been really good. I’m working on real cases, drafting briefs, and researching precedents. I get to work directly with the attorneys, and there’s a nice girl about my age named Trina who I’ve been having lunch with.”

I nod and take another sip of my beer. “That’s awesome. So you like it then?”

She chews on her lower lip. “Yes and no. My boss, Larry The Creeper . . .” She takes a long swig of her beer before continuing. “All week felt like a game of cat and mouse. I tried to avoid him while he doggedly pursued me.”

“What do you mean pursued you?”

“He wants in my panties,” she says matter-of-factly.

I can’t stop my lip from curling in disgust. “How old is this guy?”

She shrugs. “Sixty? Give or take.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah, agreed.”

“Did you tell him to fuck off?” I see our server approaching with our food from the corner of my vision.

“No. My hands are tied. It’s a long story, but basically that’s the fastest way to lose your job. And I can’t lose this job.”

I growl out a curse. “That’s bullshit, but I get what you’re saying. Will you let me know if it gets any worse? I’ll think of something.”

She nods, her gaze tender and locked on mine.

When our food is delivered, I poke at my portabella mushroom cap burger, weary of this experience anew.

“Just try it. It’ll be fine,” Emery says encouragingly as she digs into her own food.

When I see her take a big, unladylike bite of her black bean quinoa burger and end up with a smear of garlic aioli on her chin, it pretty much makes it worth it coming here. She keeps right on talking about her boss, like nothing even happened. Amused, I lean across the table and use my napkin to wipe her lower lip and chin, smirking at her.

“Did I have something?” She touches her lip.

“I got it.”

Now she’s the one smirking. “Thanks.” After taking another big bite of her sandwich, she reaches over and steals one of my sweet potato fries.

I’m about to tell her to have at ’em, because I won’t eat the damn things, when I realize she wasn’t waiting for permission. I like that there’s no tiptoeing around between us, no trying to be on our best behavior to impress the other thing happening. We’re just ourselves, and it’s comfortable. I’m not sure why I’ve never had a woman friend before, but I decide this isn’t so bad.

“So, Emery,” I say, after forcing down another bite of my own meal. “Tell me about this bad breakup you alluded to when we first met.” I haven’t pried about her past, but now feels like the right time to dive into a deeper conversation. We’re full and happy—or least, she is—and we have two fresh beers in front of us, thanks to our server. I lean back in my chair as she fiddles with the label on her bottle.

“Ugh, seriously? You want to know about Asshat McFuckstick?”

I choke on a swig of beer. The poor guy doesn’t even deserve a name . . . he must have done something really bad. “Hit me with it.”

“Well, the first thing you need to understand is that I’m not coming off of one bad breakup. I’m coming off a trifecta. Three asshole douchebags, each one worse than the last. Apparently I suck at picking guys.”

“Lay it on me. It’ll be like therapy.” I have no idea how to help her, but maybe talking about it will prove to be therapeutic.

She takes a deep swig from her bottle. “I might need something stronger than this.”

“Not a problem. My place is fully stocked. We can head back there.”

She narrows her eyes. “Nice try, playboy.”

Holding up my hands in mock innocence, I smile. “Or we can stay here.”

She smiles and leans back in her seat.

“So, what happened with McFuckstick?”

Rolling her eyes, Emery then turns her gaze to the sidewalk and the passing pedestrian traffic. It’s a nice evening, and couples and small groups are beginning to venture out to restaurants and bars in the area.

“Well, you’re getting ahead of yourself there, Mr. Oliver.”

She’s still looking away, and I sense she’s deflecting the question. Whether it’s because she wants to keep the mood lighter, or simply because she’s not ready to answer it, I’m not sure, so I wait until she decides to continue.

She sighs. “Before all that mess, first there was Whit and Dana.”

I can’t help chuckling. “You dated some guys with some pretty feminine names.”

Her gaze snaps back to mine, her expression mocking. “Right, because Hayden is the epitome of masculinity.”

“Shut it.” It’s something my own sisters made fun of. I think she’s going to elaborate about exes one and two, but instead, her gaze stays out on the street while she takes a long sip of her drink. When Emery leans forward in her chair, gathering up her purse in her lap, I ask, “Are you ready to go?” I figured we’d chill here for a while, so I’m surprised when she seems ready to leave.

She nods. “I’d better. I might try to squeeze in a little more work tonight. Thanks for bringing me here, though, it’s a great place.”

“Anytime,” I say, rising to my feet and helping her from her chair. I’m now regretting my grand idea to pry into her personal life.

As we walk toward the parking garage two blocks away, Emery’s quiet and contemplative. I doubt she’s thinking about work like she said.

“McFuckstick . . . ,” she starts, capturing my attention. “At first it was just the little things, you know? He never wanted to hold my hand because he said it made his hand sweaty.” She’s quiet when she says this.

I expect her to say something more, but she stares straight ahead with a silent intensity, and I get that this was a big thing to her. A seemingly small thing that reflected on his inability to connect with her, and ended up being a deal-breaker in the end.

Needing to lighten the mood, I decide to humor her. “If I was your boyfriend, I’d hold your hand.”

Her gaze cuts over to mine, and a pretty smile adorns her lips. “Well, aren’t you sweet. But you’d never be my boyfriend, right?”

“Never ever,” I confirm, lacing my fingers between hers.

“Mmm, this feels nice.” She gives my hand a squeeze and we continue walking, more in step with each other now that we’re linked up.

I find that holding her hand doesn’t make mine sweaty at all. It’s nice, in fact, and I quickly decide her ex really was a fuckstick.

When we reach my car, I reluctantly let her go, and as she slips into the passenger seat, I immediately miss touching her.

On the ride home, Emery continues her story, and I quickly learn that she has a long list of complaints about her exes. But rightly so. These guys sound like total douches. I’m actually getting a little pissed off as I listen to her talk.

“It was a lot of me, myself, and I back then.” She giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh God, did I just tell you that I used to masturbate a lot?”

“That visual image isn’t helping our friendship,” I say with a sideways glance in her direction. I’m hoping she doesn’t notice the erection that’s forming in my pants.

“Sorry, but that’s the damn truth. Whit couldn’t have found the clitoris if I’d drawn him a map.”

“That’s another thing I can help with.” The idea of touching her sweet body makes my cock ache. Even though we’re dancing around it, sexual tension burns hotly under the surface, and I can tell from the glances she gives me that she finds me every bit as desirable as I do her.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, chastising me. “That’s what battery-operated boyfriends are for. And they don’t cheat or lie.”

It pisses me off to know she’s had to deal with some unsavory situations. I know she can fend for herself, she’s tough and smart and outspoken, but I don’t like that she’s had that responsibility resting on her shoulders. Men can be scum, and it makes me want to prove to her I’m not just another dipshit from her past.

“What about you?” she asks, suddenly turning the line of questioning on me.

“I definitely know my way around a clit. No worries there. It’s all about pressure and speed.”

She barks out a laugh. “No, that’s not what I meant. Surely you’ve got a crazy-ex story of your own.” She’s looking over at me with hopeful eyes, wanting me to take the bait.

Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I shake my head. “It’s not something I want to talk about.” We’re just starting to get close; I don’t want to scare her away yet with the mountain of baggage I’m pulling along behind me.

“Now or ever?” she asks, her tone filled with curiosity.

Ever. But I’ve just pried into her past, and withholding my own isn’t exactly fair. “Now,” I settle on.

“Okay.” She shrugs. “I’ll just have to keep supplying you with vegetarian food and regular yoga classes until I get it out of you.”

I grunt. “No way. The next time we go out, I’m choosing what we do. Something manly. Sport fishing, cross-fit, all-you-can-eat Brazilian meats.”

She makes a gagging noise next to me, and then laughs. A sweet sound that’s full of life and promise, just like her.

When we reach our building, I walk her upstairs, stopping outside her door. She looks beautiful in her simple white cotton tank and jeans; somehow her casual dress makes her look younger than her twenty-four years. I’m filled with desire for her, but I know if she invited me inside right now, I’d fuck everything up.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her wide-set eyes fixed on mine.

Tracing my thumb along her jawline, I revel in how soft her skin is. “Anytime.”

Emery’s breathing hitches, her only indication that my touch affects her. I want to lean in and kiss her, press my lips to hers, but I won’t. Can’t.

After a wistful moment, she turns and heads inside, the lock clicking into place once she shuts the door.

“Good night, Emery,” I say, and turn to head for my place.

When I get inside, I toss my keys and wallet onto the tray on the counter and sigh. I’m trying to figure out why hanging out with a woman has never felt like that before. It was easy and fun, and I already want to do it again.

Shaking the thoughts away, I open the fridge and peer inside. I’m still fucking starving from that vegetarian dinner. It may work for Emery, but I need meat to sustain me. After making myself a sandwich, I sink down onto the couch and grab the remote. The TV may be playing in the background, but I can’t help but recount the cute little things Emery said and did tonight.

Fuck.

Roughly swallowing a bite of roast beef, I sit straight up in my chair. I realize, with stunned horror, that I like her. I like hanging out with her. I like her personality, her sass, the fact she has goals. The curve of her hips, her tight ass . . . and the fact that she took the time to put on earrings before our non-date.

I’d also like to bang the shit out of her, but I know that isn’t possible, both because of my vow to Hudson, and to Beth, but also because it’s not what Emery wants or needs. She needs a friend. And that’s what I’m going to be.

Setting my unfinished plate aside, I get up and head into the bathroom. I need a cold fucking shower. I need to knock this shit off. I’ve made a goal for myself, and I’m not going to fuck it up. Even if my dick is rock hard right now just thinking about her.

Quickly stripping down, I step under the spray of lukewarm water. It does nothing to quell my erection, especially since I know that Emery is just one floor below me. She’s probably changing into her pajamas, and my mind spins with the possibilities. Does she sleep in a matching shorts-and-tank set, or maybe just her panties and an old T-shirt, her beautiful tits straining against the softened fabric?

My hand finds my cock and I squeeze, trying to quiet the images in my brain. It’s no use. The way her round ass filled out those jeans, the hint of cleavage that peeked from her tank top, it’s been burned into my brain. Knowing I’m going to give in to temptation, I grab the bottle of body wash, squeeze a generous amount into my palm, and use the suds to stroke my cock up and down. A grunt pushes past my lips as my hand speeds up. My shaft feels like steel and my balls draw up closer to my body.

The images in my brain turn far more salacious . . . Emery naked and kneeling between my feet, her pink lips sucking on the head of my cock, her bent over my bed with her ass up nice and high so I can see her glistening pussy, me pounding into her, showing her what it’s like to be fucked by a man who knows what he’s doing.