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A jolt of fear shoots through me.
If I don’t have the dick in the Birmingham, I might never be able to feel pleasure for a man ever again.
So here’s what I’m thinking—I’m thinking I’ll go back into my apartment, close the drapes over my bedroom windows and pop on that Felix Fitzgerald movie like I planned. Sure, there’s going to be an obligatory sex scene between him and whatever blonde bimbo is playing opposite of him, but fucking Felix Fitzgerald is one of those fantasies that I can cope with right now.
Fantasizing about the dick at the Bradford is one thing. The dick at the Bradford feels oddly obtainable—I mean, it’s just across the street.
Felix Fitzgerald, at least, is more unobtainable. He’s a movie star.
Pure fantasy with no chance of ever becoming a reality.
After all, it’s not like Felix Fitzgerald is about to show up at my front door.
Four
Felix
She leaves her window immediately after I cum all over mine.
&n
bsp; Fuck.
That’s not what I wanted to happen. That’s not what I wanted her to do at all.
What I wanted her to do was to give up the fucking charade.
I want her. She wants me. I came all over my fucking window for her!
How much clearer of a love letter can I send?
Other than literally coming into an envelope and mailing it to her with my apartment key enclosed, of course. Which, I’m not even ruling out at this point.
Fuck!
This is the opposite of what I wanted. Apparently, coming all over your window for a woman isn’t exactly the way to her heart—and my fucking housekeeper is going to hate me now, too.
The worst part is, I’m not even spent yet. I left a substantial load smeared across the antique panes of glass for the babe in the Bradford, but it’s nothing compared to the load I’ve got left in my balls for her.
I’m horny.
I’m hot.
And remembering the look on her gorgeous face while she watched me come…
That just makes me hard all over again.
I need her. Her, and no one else.
They say actors are just spoiled assholes who need an audience, and in this case, maybe that’s even true. The babe in the Bradford is my audience. And now, I might’ve lost her for good.
I need to think fast—so I do.
Actors aren’t the dumb bastards the media likes to portray us to be.
We’re smart fuckers when we need to be—maybe not book smart, but people smart.
We like to be seen, but we’re also keen observers in our own right.
