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Setting my phone down on the desk, I down my drink.
“That little skinny friend of your girlfriend’s is here,” Kimberly informs me.
I start at the word girlfriend. Kimberly notices.
“Oh, did I say something wrong?” she asks.
“What do you want?”
Kimberly comes over and sits on the edge of my desk in front of me. “Came to see that you were okay.”
Noticing my empty glass, she asks if I want another drink. I don’t want to get wasted again like I was the other night. Though it’s tempting.
“Why would you think I wasn’t okay?” I reply.
She curls a strand of hair around her finger. “I don’t know. Maybe because you didn’t get a boner when I hugged you earlier?”
I snort. “Guys don’t get boners every time a woman touches them.”
“You used to get them all the time with me.”
It’s true. I knew I wanted to fuck her the moment I set eyes on her. After things ended between us, I would occasionally consider hooking up with her again. Until I met Bridget. Who’s like the opposite of Kimberly in so many ways.
“Maybe that girl has dampened your ability to get it up,” Kimberly muses, reaching over to play with my hair.
I have a direct view down her dress. Not that the garment was hiding much to begin with. Her tits are huge compared to Bridget’s.
She slides from the desk onto my lap. “Hearing that you were shot, I was so fucking worried. It made me realize how much I missed you.”
I should shove her off my lap before she gets the wrong idea, but the buzz from the drinks I had earlier has set in, making me slow to react. Nevertheless, I consider pouring myself a third glass.
“Did you miss me?” she asks.
“Honestly? No.”
She frowns. “I don’t get you. I mean, why are you still hanging out with the ugly sweater girl?”
“She has a name. Bridget.”
“Whatever. That name is about as sexy as Agatha or, I dunno, Mildred.”
I don’t care what a woman’s name is. If I find her fuckable, she’s sexy. “You should get off my lap,” I tell Kimberly.
“Why? I like it here.”
“You don’t want your three-inch boyfriend jealous, do you?”
“Now who’s sounding like the jealous one?”
I grasp the back of her neck and ease her up off my lap. She pouts. Seeing my phone, she grabs it and slips it into her dress between her tits.
“I think we should do a little test,” she says. “If you can put your hand between my boobs and not get hard, then I know something’s definitely wrong.”
Not amused, I tell her, “Give me back my phone.”
She hops onto the desk and leans back. “You’ll have to get it.”
I grab her arm and haul her back into a sitting position. Sounding like a parent who wants their kid to put a toy back on the store shelf, I say, “Kimberly.”
