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“Maybe I should just make a statement and apologize,” I whisper.
“What are you going to apologize for? For not taking each woman you fucked on a date?”
I don’t answer.
“Why don’t you kiss any of them on the lips?” Tristan asks.
When I don’t answer, he repeats the question.
“It forms an attachment.”
“Not that the rule has helped any; they all still want you.”
I wouldn’t have wanted to kiss them anyway.
“But why is that a rule you’ve enforced?” Tristan presses further.
I turn to face him. “Does it matter?”
His right shoulder tips up. “Just curious.”
Aaron takes a deep breath.
“It doesn’t matter what he did or didn’t do in the past. What matters is how he moves forward and does damage control from this moment on. You need to bury these posts with something new and exciting. Imagine posting a photo with a woman on Instagram. Everyone will flock. And then, you can maybe message the girls to apologize for hurting them and explain how it wasn’t personal and your heart was never in it. How it always belonged to someone else.”
I blink at him, not sure what he’s getting at, but decide I don’t care to find out.
“Please tell me you have something else, Tristan. Something actually good?”
The abrupt slam of a door followed by the shuffle of feet on the hardwood floor interrupts our conversation. All of us pivot our attention toward the noise.
Zoe, with her hair in a messy bun and wearing noise-canceling headphones, enters through the archway, singing at the top of her lungs. Her eyes are closed, and she’s swaying her hips to the rhythm of The Pussycat Dolls’ “Buttons” as she makes her way toward the kitchen. She’s wearing nothing but tight black leggings and a blue sports bra, looking fucking mouth watering.
“Lord have mercy,” Tristan breathes, his eyes fixed on Zoe.
She continues to sing and dance like she’s the only one in the room. Shaking her ass and popping out her chest, highlighting her perfect, perky tits. Completely unaware that she has an audience standing a few feet away.
Oh, baby, I’ll fucking loosen your buttons.
Tristan is basically drooling, and I want to strangle him for staring at her like that. I would do it if I wasn’t distracted by the show. I’m worried that if I move an inch, she’ll stop.
Her back is facing us as she drops to the floor, her ass sticking out in those deliciously tight pants as she starts to slowly make her way up. Her back arched and bent, she moves her lower body to the music. The sight of her grinding the air has my dick pushing against the seam of my jeans.
“I choose her. Fuck this friendship,” Tristan utters, practically drooling on himself.
Aaron’s hand flies out, shoving the side of Tristan’s face as he goes down into the couch. But Aaron doesn’t stop there; he delivers a vicious punch to Tristan’s stomach, causing a guttural groan to fly out of Tristan.
Ouch, that didn’t look too fun.
Aaron launches off the couch and grabs Zoe’s elbow. She screams in shock as he drags her the rest of the way into the kitchen, both of them disappearing inside the walk-in pantry. I quickly adjust myself, but it’s not enough. Nothing is going to cover up my fucking erection at this point. I get a flashback of her perfect ass pressing into my cock and feel myself grow even harder. Walking back to the chair, I sit down, grab a throw pillow, and press it into my crotch.
Goddammit, Zoe.
“Fuckkkk that fucking hurt, bastard!” Tristan sits up, one hand cradling his side while the other reaches for his whiskey. He downs the drink, smacking the glass down a bit too harshly before his eyes settle on me. Needing to occupy myself, I pull out my phone and scroll mindlessly…completely distracted by the mini-show that just took place in Aaron’s living room.
When I look up, Tristan is smirking, eyes on the cream pillow that’s currently resting on my crotch.
“I think I just found the solution to your problem.”
