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“We should?—”
“Everything was said, Tizio. Thanks for the ride.”
She hurries from the room. I sit up, put myself away, pull on my T-shirt and the sweater I discarded much earlier, and do up my pants. Then I grab her bourbon and down it.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I’m old enough to know better. Old enough to have actual self-control and not get in that situation with her.
The problem is, anyone else, and it wouldn’t have even reached that.
I can still taste her. I still feel her on my cock, my fingers, hear that moan and cry when she came.
I’m a class-A jerk who’s going to deserve murder by my best friend. Of course, since he’s in prison, he’ll have to put out a hit.
The gallows humor fails to make me smile, even as I think it.
What I should have done was not have sex with her. Failing that, made it nice and vanilla.
Instead, I threw her in the deep end, called her names, spoke down to her, did the things that turn me on, and the lady in question—when we’ve agreed on that level of sex.
Running a hand over my head, I get up and head into the kitchen, where I grab the bourbon, a fresh glass, and pour myself a very healthy slug. When I’ve downed that, I pour another. This time, I sip.
There’s softening edges and entering tipsy, and I don’t want the latter, no matter how well I can hold my liquor.
I know she’s there at the door before I look up.
Karlee’s a fucking punch to the solar plexus. Her hair’s wet, and she’s in some Japanese anime PJs. Could my guilt be raised higher if I tried? She looks like a young twenty-two-year-old, and I look like a fucking perv.
I stare down into my glass. “I’m not exactly proud.”
“Of treating me like dirt?”
“Yeah, but it’s . . . it’s sex games. I don’t think of you that way, like nothing. But I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”
She sniffs. “Yes, well, whatever. I just wanted to have sex, and you were there.”
“Well.”
Karlee trembles a little but raises her chin and runs a finger along the counter. “I’ve had better.”
“Better?”
“Yes, you egomaniacal man, better.” Her eyes narrow into glinting violet glass daggers. “It was mediocre.”
I bite back a sigh. “Good, so I won’t worry about you jumping me again.”
“Tiz—”
“Go to bed.”
“It hasn’t been made up.”
This time, I laugh. “I have faith in you. Now go.”
