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“You’d like that wouldn’t you, perv?”
He huffs. “Takes one to know one. Just take off your fucking clothes. Stop being so needlessly proud.”
“Needless—What?” My mind is made up entirely of post-multi-orgasmic sludge.
“You know the type, right?” he says as my hands slip off his, and I lift my hips to let him take off my pants. “Someone who wants to do everything the hard way—refuses to accept any help—calls it not wanting charity. It’s pointless. Just take the handout for fuck’s sake. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Says you,” I say, as he slides off my shoes.
“Pretty sure they don’t give out awards at the pearly gates to people who achieve natural childbirth or make it through life completely on their own. It’s okay to make a decision not to suffer. No one’s gonna judge you for it. No one that matters anyway.”
“Natural childbirth?” I ask.
“TikTok rabbit hole,” he says. “I liked a video of a hot pregnant woman one time, and all of a sudden, my For You Page is all about medication-free birth. It’s a whole thing. Maybe you can just take my word for it.”
I am currently naked from the waist down, my shirt shoved up to my armpits, and my cock drying rapidly.
“Shirt?” he asks, as he stands and tucks his own dick back into the thousand-dollar jeans that make him look like a million bucks. I pull the polo off and hand it over. That one simple act wears me the fuck out on top of everything else we’ve done.
“I’ll grab you a blanket. Want a bottle of water?”
I glare at him.
He huffs and walks away from the couch. When he returns a minute later, he’s got a thick, down comforter—one of the most luxurious things to ever touch my body besides maybe this couch, and a bottle of water already open. I take a few sips and hand it back. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a powder room right there. I’ll try not to disturb you. I’ve been up most of the night, too.”
I hear what he’s saying, but I’m already listing to the left, half asleep.
“When you wake up, I expect a better rating than decent.”
12
OLIVIER
While Drew sleeps on my couch, I do some googling. First, I look up sex choking—“breath play” apparently—just to make sure he’s not going to kill me or crush my trachea or something. I find so many horror stories, I quickly type in a new search: “how do I know if I’m gay?”
Reddit is full of answers, and the consensus is—I have to decide for myself. Great.
One of the answers someone gave was if I want to lick his nutsack, I’m gay. That one gave me pause for thought, but the majority of the answers were that I get to choose how I identify, which is supremely unhelpful. Maybe what I wanted to read was that this happens to everyone at some point. But no one said that.
The last thing I need at twenty-four is a fucking identity crisis.
After the orgasm from this morning wears off and I’m capable of getting hard again, I take a shower and attempt masturbating to my memories of the night with Elise and Sierra, which had been super hot. Them together—them with me. Their scissored legs—licking their perfumed pussies…
I do get off.
Granted, not as hard as I did with Drew earlier, but solo work always produces a weaker result unless you’re Harry Styles. So I’m not gay.
Am I bi?
Later in the afternoon, I look up “Hot Men” on Pinterest. Aside from an eyebrow raise I give a particularly flattering photo of Henry Cavill, nothing stirs my dick. I don’t want to lick Henry’s nutsack. So I don’t know what the fuck I am. Unless Drew’s right, and I’m just a needy perv.
Which, not gonna lie, fits.
I am pretty needy right now. With my parents pretending I don’t exist and my friends shunning me, and Elodie—ugh—I’m a little attention starved. Maybe more than a little.
I may have downplayed it, but I was delighted when Drew was too spent to refuse my offer to let him crash on the couch. Just knowing I’m not all alone in my penthouse is comforting in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Around two, I call my mother, hoping she’ll take my call. I figure I’ve got a better shot with her than my dad. I want to give him at least another week to calm down.
