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“Back in college, I was pretty much the way I am today. Disciplined and focused on my studies and the task at hand. There was no room for fun, no time for parties. In fact, the thought of a party pretty much made me nauseous, much like the crowds today,” I tell her, my eyes falling to the ugly carpet pattern at my feet.
“My roommate, Doug, finally convinced me to go out one night. The fraternity he was pledging was having a big Halloween bash, and he wanted me to go. I tried to get out of it, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I went. And I drank.”
Deep breath.
“I drank too much, and then drank some more. Somehow, we ended up at this late night tattoo parlor. The artist was…well, she was good looking. I remember lying on the table and trying to get her phone number, but I had absolutely no game and was awkward as hell. My roommate and a few of his friends were laughing and encouraging me, even as the blackness of passing out started to creep in.
“I remember her asking me what I wanted, and I guess I pointed at…well, at my manhood.”
“You what?” Freedom asks, drawing my attention back to her face.
“Yeah, I apparently pointed there,” I tell her, pointing down at my groin much like I apparently did that night so long ago. I take a deep breath and tell her the part I’m dreading with my entire being. “I pointed there and said...hummer. Only it didn’t come out hummer. Apparently, I said hummingbird.” The familiar shame rockets through my body, rendering me completely spent and exhausted.
Freedom doesn’t say anything. She just sits there, the humiliation of my words floating around us like a bomb, ready to detonate. Finally, she takes pity on me and speaks, “So, let me get this straight. You, Samuel Grayson, went out and got schnockered with your roommate. Somehow, you decided to get a tattoo, and while you were there, you asked the artist for a hummer?”
I close my eyes, the burn of humiliation tinging my cheeks. “Yes.”
It’s silent for another second. Two. Hell, it’s silent for about ten seconds before she does something I’m not prepared for. Freedom bursts out laughing. “Holy shitballs, Sammy! That’s kinda badass.”
“Badass? Are you kidding me right now? It’s a horrible story!”
“No, it’s a hilarious story, and shows that you’re human.”
“I’m not human, Freedom. A human would go back to get it covered up, but I’m too afraid of needles to even do that.”
Again, she laughs.
“Fine, laugh it up,” I grumble as I stand, hellbent on retrieving my clothes and my dignity, and getting the hell out of here.
Except, this is my room…
“Stop,” she says, standing up and grabbing my arm. “I’m not laughing at you, honest. I’m just happy the impeccably dressed, always has it together, anal Samuel Grayson is proving to be human after all.”
“Did you call me anal?”
“Is that all you got out of that?” she asks, her gaze locked on mine. Her hand caresses my thigh, goosebumps peppering my entire body. It’s also the moment I realize I’m still standing in my underwear, and she’s wearing tight black pants and a tiny little top. Her nipples are poking through the thin material, and my mouth starts to water.
“My eyes are up here, Sammy. All I’m saying is I’m glad to know you make mistakes just like the rest of us,” she says.
“Oh, believe me. I make mistakes.” The unspoken meaning is evident and sadness flashes in those gorgeous brown eyes, making me feel like shit. Even though I made a terrible mistake, getting drunk and marrying my sister’s best friend, I’d never want Freedom to feel guilty or unwanted. There’s definitely a want there, it’s just not supposed to be acted upon.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you go shower and wash off the oil. I’ll go down and get you a chamomile tea,” she says. When I glance at the clock, it’s nearing one in the morning. I’ve never been a night owl, let alone multiple days in a row. Yet, I can’t seem to find the desire to go to sleep.
“I don’t think tea is going to help,” I tell her, rubbing the back of my neck. Not with her standing there looking like pure temptation in yoga pants.
“Just go shower, Sammy. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she says, heading toward the door.
Before she opens it, she pulls a keycard from the waistband of those pants. “Seriously, Freedom?” I ask, rubbing my forehead.
“What? It’s not like I have pockets, and this tank would have shown the rectangular card.” Then she leaves the room, questions swirling around in my brain. Like is she really going downstairs dressed like that? Or how did I not see that keycard outlined in those tight pants? Like most situations involving Freedom, I don’t have any answers. She’s an enigma in bangle bracelets and lavender essential oil.
Stepping into the bathroom, I turn on the shower. I strip from my underwear as images of Freedom in that lovely dress earlier today and then hotter in black leggings parade through my mind. Suddenly, my cock is standing at attention once more, my blood flowing straight to one concentrated area.
Exhaling, I get under the hot water, unable to shake the pictures in my mind. Even as I lather up my hair and then scrub the oil from my skin, she’s all I can see. It’s no wonder when I rub the washcloth over my balls, they draw up as lust races through my veins. That’s why I find myself with my cock in my hand, resting my forehead against the cold tile, and stroking myself. Sweet release barrels down on me as I stroke faster, my body burning with the need to come.
“Freedom.” Her name spills from my lips. It’s a plea, a balm to the ache deep inside me.
Evidence of what I’ve done washes down the drain as I try to regain my breathing. I slip under the water again, rinsing away the remaining soap, and turn the knob. Reaching for a towel, I dry off my legs as my hotel room door shuts. “Freedom?”
