Page 4 of Mr. Match

I didn’t understand how a girl so small, and so young, and so smart could be wrapped up in that kind of life. I wanted to take her away the first time I laid eyes on her. I wanted to fuck that guy up and whisk her away. To Tahiti, or Grand Cayman, or Monaco. Some luxury five-star palace. Drive her around in an Aston Martin with the wind in her hair, laughing. I wanted to drink champagne with her until we were sick, and gamble all our money away at the roulette table, then collapse on top of her naked body, kissing her up and down, promising to get more money so we could do it again.

Even though Katya Kalashova was soft on the outside, she was all edges. Everything about her was hard angles and sleek lines. Like she was engineered and perpetually on the cusp of something… fame, and fortune, and a long, fascinatingly charmed life.

But then she said… Harvard. She had plans, and dreams, and a wild imagination that was both conventional and exotic at the same time.

Why did I ever let her get away?

How did I ever get involved with her in the first place?

I check the other videos, but they are all similar versions of the first one. Her, Katya, sitting with only her torso and shoulders visible in the frame. Her full tits taunting me as she paints her body with words.

How many people have seen this, for fuck’s sake? Is she trying to get me jealous? Piss me off? Make me… but then I see a little red icon in the lower left corner of her stats.

Private.

I glance down at her print-out and read the pink sticky note in Ariel’s handwriting. No one has complained. Yet. But she’s bad news. Ban her before she makes her profile public.

She’s bad news. Just an off-the-cuff comment from my sister, but so fucking true.

Katya Kalashova is some of the worst news I’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking. This girl is dragging a lot of baggage around behind her.

My hand is on my dick before I can think. I’m tugging on the button, then the zipper. One hand lifts up my shirt to bare my stomach while the other hand presses play on the video. I push record on the webcam as she resumes her erotic art. Her paintbrush is spelling out commands I already want to follow. Kiss me here, it spells. And here, it spells. And here.

My cock lengthens, hardens. I fist it, leaning back in the chair, closing my eyes so I can pretend she’s not onscreen, but right here in the room with me. I start breathing harder as I imagine her the way she was the last night we spent together. We were fucking at my place for most of it. I took her from behind, her face pushed up against the wall. Her tits bouncing, my balls smacking her with each thrust. That erotic sound of skin on skin that echoed up into the high ceilings of my construction-zone of a house.

I jerk myself a little faster, my hand slamming down to the base of my shaft, then rising again until my thumb peaks over the tip of my cock. Again, and again as I picture her that last night. Standing naked in the moonlight as I tried to convince myself. That my part in her life was over. That I would not miss her.

It was a lie. And that’s why she ended up with those tattoos.

I fucked her at Sick Boyz that night too. It was late—or early, depends how you think of the night. I had her in the chair. She was wearing a skirt and she was topless. I fucked her mouth, I fucked her pussy, I fucked her ass.

I fucked her like I would never fuck her again.

She left for the East Coast the next morning, Harvard, she said, and I felt sick about it. I felt sick about letting her go. I felt sick about the time we spent together. And I felt sick about how we met.

Why we met.

“Katya…” I moan, just before my release. “Why did you come back? I know it’s you,” I say. “Katya Kalashova. I really never thought I’d see you again.”

I laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because it’s so damn ironic. “Well, I can’t see you yet, can I? But you’re here for a reason.” I pause. “I will see you and if you try to leave town again, sneak away like a fucking coward…”

I stop talking and just concentrate on the image of her in my mind. On how I wish it was her hand jerking me off instead of mine. Hot, sticky semen spurts out of my cock and becomes a pool of thick, white come on my stomach.

“Uh…” a voice says from the stairwell. “Knock, knock, you fucking pervert. And who the hell is Katya? Don’t tell me, you finally got a girlfriend?”

I open my eyes, stare at the asshole who just interrupted the best fantasy jerk-off I’d had in years, and reach for one of the promotional Zombie Run t-shirts on my desk. I wipe myself off as he comes further into my office

“Well, well, well,” I say, tossing the shirt aside and putting my dick away. “Look who it is. What the fuck are you doing in my town, Mr. Corporate?”

Chapter Two - KATYA

From my top-floor apartment in the sleek new building in downtown Fort Collins I can see his whole world. His office, two buildings down from mine. The Fort Collins Theater, the tattoo shop, and the bike shop. I don’t usually get a look at so many of his family members all at once, so today is special.

I pull the sheer white curtains aside just an inch when he approaches the window—his posture telling me he has things on his mind—and my heart begins to gallop.

So tall. Six foot two, it says in his dossier. One hundred ninety-five pounds. But those two descriptors say nothing about his body. Not in any real sense. He is all muscle, always has been since I can remember. His blond hair is newly cut. Not shaved, not exactly. But very closely cropped. Like a cage fighter trying to limit the liability that comes with long locks.

I can’t see his eyes from here but I know they are blue. Not some romantic blue, not some tropical-island blue, not some sapphire blue. But gray-blue. Like the clouds off in the distance, hanging over the mountains as rain pours down in buckets.