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“Fuck you, you spoiled bastard.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I know.”
“Is it because I’m a man? Because you didn’t seem to have a problem?—”
He interrupts me. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I have a girlfriend.”
Well, color me surprised. That wasn’t on his Instagram. “Sounds like you owe her an apology, then.”
“Fuck you.”
I lick my dry lips and hang my head. This is going nowhere. It’s better to admit defeat. I was willing to humiliate myself some in pursuit of an epic orgasm, but I’m not going to beg.
And then, Drew surprises me—again. “You want to blow me, rich boy? Is that why you had me come all the way up here after I’ve been up all night? You want to relieve my stress? Be my fucking guest—I’m too fucking exhausted to fight with you anymore. But good luck. I’m not exactly an easy lay.”
I arch a brow. Now that’s an even better challenge. I might actually enjoy this.
“You wanna have a seat?” I nod toward the sofa before he can change his mind. “Take a load off?”
Drew glances at the sectional, and when he returns his gaze to mine, he really does look tired. Like the mere idea of lying back on my couch with his legs spread brings about a fresh wave of exhaustion.
Why is that so hot? Why is he so hot?
Why do I want to get on my knees for the doorman?
Is it because he spared my life? Because he has good hair?
Because he’s broken in a way I might never understand but yet sort of want to fix?
I think I answered my own questions. I’m bored.
And Drew is a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.
He steps up to me, shoves his jacket against my chest, and I reflexively grab it. He then storms over to the couch like he owns the damn place, finds a spot in the center, takes a seat, and spreads his arms across the back like a king in his castle.
“Mmm.” The sound escapes my bitten lips, but it’s soft. He wouldn’t have heard it. Not the way I hear the unbuckling of his belt and the fall of his zipper. Those sounds crack like thunder in the open-air space.
I set his jacket on the table next to the croissants and make myself move. I’m hard. I’ve been hard since he called my blow job decent, but now my erection is pushing against my fly, my crown compressed and aching.
I open my own pants as I make my way over, giving my cock the room it wants to grow. He’s got his eyes closed as I step in between his legs. His dick is out, too, along with his balls. But he’s limp. Lifeless. He might even be asleep.
Like I give a shit.
Taking matters into my own hands—since he claimed he was too tired to fight—I push up his shirt to reveal the edges of a large tattoo that spans his upper chest.
With his abs fully exposed, I examine the soft trail of light-brown hair leading down to his large, flaccid cock. I don’t want to touch anything but his cock, but I was curious whether the view would interest me. Now that I have a better visual of this brutally hard body that failed to make it big in Manhattan, I kneel, taking the situation in from a new angle.
I don’t hate it. He has a great body. Enviable.
This limp dick, though…
I know he can get hard—my sore jaw proves that—but he’s made his point. He’s not into guys—or me specifically. His testosterone must have surged when he was strangling me yesterday. He might have even been out of his mind with it. What’s his excuse today, I wonder?
Oh, that’s right. He’s tired.
Sure.
