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Watching him walk down my sidewalk, I resent his thanks. I don’t want to be thanked. I want to know how to be Pete Carver before Pete Carver glanced at his cock in the office restroom. When I shut the door, my house looks foreign to me. My dining room is now where I once had dinner with Cam. My living room isn’t my living room. It’s the place where he dropped to his knees and gave his first blow job. My kitchen isn’t my boring kitchen. It’s where I was the recipient of the most perfect kiss of all kisses.
I tidy up in a daze, trying to operate on autopilot, but the events of the evening flash in my mind. The sounds resonate in my soul. By the time I make it back to my bedroom, the hope that I’ve run through the replays enough is all for naught once I see the rumpled comforter on my bed. My stocking clad foot depresses on something hard on the floor. Stepping back, I find a small white button embedded in my carpeting.
That explains the ripping thread sound I heard when I yanked his shirt off of him like an animal in heat. Rolling it between my thumb and forefinger, I picture him with the bottom of his shirt gaping open in a breeze.
My dry cleaner has a mending service. Whenever I lose a button, I put it in a sandwich bag and pin it on my shirt. I should do the same for him, so I won’t lose it. I can return it to him somehow.
Turning to head toward my kitchen, I stop in the bedroom doorway. I’m not supposed to see him, though. Those were the rules I just made up. The rules that he agreed to. I honestly don’t like that rule right now, but after a few days, I’m sure I’ll appreciate it when I get back to life before Cameron.
Walking to my nightstand, I set the button down on the black surface next to the lamp. Pressing my fingertip to its center, the thread holes are imprinted on my skin when I pull my finger away. It’s like a recall button, putting me back in the moment.
Maybe he can live with having a shirt that’s missing a button. Maybe every time he looks at it, he’ll remember that I’m the one that tore it off him.
When I crawl into bed later, an instant sense of possession washes over me as I stare at it. It should be a warning, not a temptation. He’s definitely not getting it back now. I need it more than he does. Every time I look at it, I’ll be reminded of what would happen if I’m near him again.
CHAPTER 11
Cameron
Once you’ve rubbed cocks with someone like Pete Carver, video streaming and drowning your singlehood sorrows in muffins on your couch lose their appeal. That’s my excuse for why I’m channeling a contortionist in my bed when the sun has barely set. Dating apps might have been a lot less daunting than my alternative plans for the evening, now that I’ve had time to evaluate my current state.
Grunting, I press the lube-covered dildo to my hole again and wince. I know you’re supposed to relax, but how are you supposed to relax while you’re reaching, and arching, and pushing? The laws of physics would probably say it’s impossible.
“Worst gay ever,” I grumble to my ceiling, flopping back against my pillow, dropping the toy from my hand.
It rolls toward me, greasing the side of my ass cheek in lube. Not sexy at all. I can’t even play with myself and get aroused. How do people enjoy this?
I bet Pete would know. Is he a toy person? He said he works all the time. I guess he’d have to be, unless he just jerks off. I get top energy from him, but what the hell do I know? I can’t even fuck myself with this starter dildo.
Running my fingers down my stomach, I trace the place where his cock rubbed against my skin. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still feel it. It was so soft and yet so solid. So slick without lube. It was all man-slick. Real slickness.
Now, I’m just depressed. Even if I do master this toy, it won’t be the same, will it? It’s cold. Pete’s was the perfect amount of warmth.
Chewing my lip, I eyeball my phone. Just knowing his number is in there makes me feel special. I have access to an incredible man who knows how to do incredible things.
He did say I could get a hold of him if I had questions. What’s there to be embarrassed about? He already knows I’m a virgin, and we came together twice.
ME: You know how you said if I had any questions, I could ask you? Well, I have a question, if you have time.
I set the phone back down on the nightstand and sit up. Gathering up my dildo and lube, I start toward the bathroom, resigned to calling it quits for the evening, but a notification stops me in my tracks.
Wow. He answered fast.
PETE: What is your question?
Tossing my things back on the bed, I blush, realizing I’m bare-ass naked while writing back to him. He doesn’t know that, but it makes the exchange feel more intimate.
ME: Does a dildo feel like a real cock?
PETE: I guess that would depend on what it’s made of.
ME: Mine is silicone.
The typing bubbles appear, disappear, and then reappear.
PETE: You’ve felt a real one. Can’t you decide for yourself?
Oh, brother. I’m so freaking awkward.
