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And it’s all for you…
Cursing, I let the phone drop. I shouldn’t have done that. I have a hard-on again, and it’s not going away anytime soon.
Angrily, I undo my belt, unzip my fly, push down my boxers, and take myself in hand. Thinking of the way I pushed up her dress, and how I sank my tongue into her folds, I begin stroking myself, slowly at first, then more quickly as I remember how wet she was for me, and how sweet she tasted. How she moaned when I teased her clit.
Aaahhh.
I’m drunk, but I’ve also been keyed up all evening, and it only takes me thirty seconds to come. I fill my hand, gasping with every muscle clench, every pulse. It gives me the physical release I needed, but it’s immensely unsatisfying, and nothing like how I’d hoped to end the evening, balls-deep inside her while she looked at me with those big, helpless eyes.
When I’m done, I reach over and grab a tissue, dispose of the evidence, and then flop back onto the pillows.
Fuck it.
I drink the rest of the whisky, then pour myself another glass.
At that point, my phone buzzes.
I pick it up. It’s a text from Sidnie.
It just says,I’m sorry.
I throw it across the room. I mean to smash it against the wall, but instead it lands neatly on the carpet. This evening is doomed to be unsatisfying in every fucking way.
I drink half of the whisky in the glass.
And that’s the last thing I remember.
*
At some point, I stumble to the bathroom to get rid of all the liquid I’ve consumed. I can hear music still playing in the distance. When I go back into the bedroom, through the slight gap in the curtains I can see the lights of the city glittering against the dark sky.
The pillow beside mine is empty, with no curly hair spread out on the pillow. No soft mouth I can kiss. No tantalizing curves I can play with in the middle of the night.
Cursing vividly and colorfully, I go back to bed and immediately fall asleep again.
*
The next time I wake, the crack in the curtains reveals that it’s still dark, but a fraction lighter than it was before.
My mouth tastes like a sewer, but my head isn’t too bad. I look at my watch—it’s five thirty. I can’t remember what time I crashed out—it wasn’t super late. Around eleven? I normally only sleep for four hours. Although I had a lot to drink, I’m big and I can normally handle a good amount of alcohol. I think it was the lack of sleep over the past week that caused me to crash out for so long.
I sit up and look around. The whisky bottle is still nearly full. At some point in the night I took my tie off, but the rest of my clothes are rumpled and stained.
I get up, strip off, go into the bathroom, and set the shower running. Going back into the room, I retrieve two Panadol from my briefcase and drink them down with most of a bottle of water. Then I get in the shower and scrub myself under the hot water before turning it to cold to punish myself.
My skin tingling, I get out and dry myself, then retrieve a tee, shorts, and my running shoes from the wardrobe. I put them on, take a Sports drink with electrolytes from the fridge, slot it into a running belt, and clip it on. Finally I retrieve my phone and wallet, and add them to the belt too.
I glance at the desk, at the papers strewn across it, and my open laptop. I close it and put everything in my briefcase, telling myself it might be locking the stable door after the horse has bolted, but that I need to be more careful from now on.
Then I go out, closing the door behind me.
The place is quiet. The only person I meet is Robert, who often does the early shift on the front desk.
“Morning, Dr. Hart,” he says as I go past.
“Morning, Rob.” I enter the elevator, feeling his gaze on me as the doors close. No doubt Gail or Huxley left him a message about the events of last night. Huxley pays his staff to be discreet though.
The carriage sinks down, and I walk across the car park and out into the semi-darkness. It’s only just after six, and the sun is just starting to appear on the lightening horizon.
