When I finally stopped pulsing, she pulled off slowly, licking her lips with a satisfied little hum. A thin string of spit and cum still connected her bottom lip to my cock until she wiped it away with her thumb and sucked it clean.
I was… fuck… at a loss for words.
She sat back on her heels, looking far too pleased with herself while I tried to remember how to breathe.
“Better than the videos?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head.
I let out a breathless laugh. “Fuck yes.”
She stood up, smoothing her dress down. “Good. Now sleep it off. I think there’s a couple other things I wanna do with you when you’re sober.”
The headache I woke up with shouldn’t have even been in the range of things humans were supposed to experience. When I say my head pounded, I mean itpounded.Like someone was taking a sledgehammer to my skull and repeatedly driving it with heavy blows, just to be funny. Just to see if it would make me keel over.
It did.
I spent at least an hour on my knees before the toilet bowl.
This shit had been funny when I’d been twenty. It was no longer even slightly amusing at thirty-five. But as my mantra went — we were rolling with it.
I walked out on the balcony when I felt like I wasn’t going to retch my soul back up, and lit a cigarette. Not a wise choice, but — again —we’re rolling with it.I don’t rightly know whatcompelled me to buy a penthouse in the very heart of New Orleans, but I know it was never making decisions for me ever again. The noise of traffic was almost unbearable. City buses passing, muscle cars revving — all the good stuff that somehow reached me up on the twenty-second floor. Not to mention the humid heat that clung to my skin and felt all the worse up here. I remembered the Louisiana summers at my grandma’s house — remembered watching her hang out the laundry, and it was a fifty-fifty gamble if it would actually end up drying, or just rotting on the line.
I felt like I was inhaling liquid.
Was kinda surprised to see the place hadn’t molded over while I was gone. I mean, sure, I had paid good money to have some teenager come over once a week and make sure the place was still standing but I harbored no illusions about what actually happened here when I was gone.
When I had first walked in after six months gone, I had noticed all of the plants exchanged for their plastic twins — and the liquor in the bottles I’d left on the shelf before leaving for tour, had looked oddly watered down. Not to mention the grand piano had been scratched up. That had pissed me off. The rest? Whatever, couldn’t care less. But the piano — that I had to unpack with a therapist. Probably.
Or just drown the anger in more whiskey.
I lit another cigarette, thinking about the piano. It tasted like a mouthful of ash, but I kept smoking it anyway because what the fuck else was I going to do? My phone was somewhere in the apartment — probably dead, definitely full of missed calls from my manager asking where the hell I was and when I was going to get my shit together.
I took another drag and tried to piece together last night. The Gilded Lily. Dahlia. Brett and Kill giving me shit. Owen passing out. And then—
A blowjob. What the fuck had I done to earn a fucking blowjob? I couldn’t remember half of the night nor who had sucked me off — all I remembered was a blond head bobbing up and down.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to will the memory into being clearer, but all I got were fragments. Black heels. A black dress. The way her dress rode up on her thighs. The sound of her voice.
Who wasshe?
Baby Doll? No. Couldn’t be. Yet I could swear I’d been in a car with her, talking OnlyFans. Or had I dreamt that?
The cigarette burned down to the filter, and I stubbed it out in the ashtray.
I needed coffee.
I went back inside and found my phone wedged between the couch cushions. Had no idea how and wasn’t about to try to figure it out. Thirty-seven missed calls. Twelve voicemails. Too many texts to count. I ignored all of them and opened my messages instead, scrolling back through the conversation history, trying to piece the missing night together and instead noticed a message from BabyDollXO on OnlyFans.
I frowned, tapped it and stopped breathing.
It was a topless photo from her. Taken in what looked like the driver’s seat of a car I may or may not have remembered. The flash was on, washing her skin in harsh light. The dress had been pulled down revealing her tits — so full and soft, her nipples hard and pink. One hand was cupping the underside of one breast like she was offering it to the camera.
The caption underneath read:
BabyDollXO:Thanks for the breakfast. Still have your taste on my tongue.
I stared at the photo until my eyes burned. My hangover headache faded into the background as blood rushed straight tomy dick. The memory slammed back into me all at once — her on her knees in my living room, that filthy mouth working me until my soul left through my dick — the way she’d looked up at me with spit dripping down her chin and pure wicked delight in her eyes.
“Fuck,” I muttered, voice rough. So this was what being starstruck felt like, because I was pretty fucking sure I was starstruck.
