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Grayson
The moment I watched Jovana fly out of my room, leaving her scent behind, I sat up in bed, recalling our last few hours together.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’d told her I was on my best behavior.
And I’d been doing so well until she asked me to open up about my mother and I’d purged the details of her taking off, followed by her death, and that was when I shut down.
When I couldn’t eat another bite of food. When I couldn’t say another word about my past.
When I needed darkness and beer and to be alone with my thoughts.
But, of course, that caring, nurturing woman wasn’t going to let the anger I had toward my mother swallow me in a goddamn hole.
She was going to make me smile.
She was going to take our photo.
She was going to make me pretend I was in love.
And just when I had her in my arms, when I had every opportunity to pull her against me, mash our lips together, and bury myself in her pussy—things I was fucking dying to do—I reminded her how fucking awful I was for her and then I kicked her out of my bed.
What was left behind was a raging hard-on and my hands clenching to have her between them.
What was it about Jovana Winters that I couldn’t get enough of?
That drove me fucking wild?
Despite how impatient she made me feel, how she tested me, challenged me, and a majority of the time made me want to scream, I enjoyed her softness as much as her sass.
I was enticed by her.
My thoughts were owned by her.
Fuck.
Why didn’t regret come in waves, giving me a break between the crests?
Why did it have to continuously slam into me? Making me recount the last few seconds when I’d forced her out?
The whole scene made me feel like shit again.
It wasn’t just weighing on me; it was eating away at me.
I wanted to be near her.
I wanted her scent filling my nose.
I wanted the softness of her words in my ears.
I wanted her.
In this room.
On top of me.
Riding my cock.
