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Ronan:Hookers, a solution as old as time and just as efficient. No doctors are needed, Danny boy.
Cole:Does Teal know you’re talking about hookers?
Ronan:For her brother, not me, and fuck you, Cole.
Ronan:Un-fuck you. Don’t bring it up to Teal.
Cole:Screenshot shared as we speak.
Ronan:You fucking bastard…
Daniel:Hey, motherfuckers. This is about Knox and his broken dick.
Aiden:He’s probably fucking someone behind your back.
Daniel:What? Why would he do that?
Aiden:Let me take a wild guess. Your unhealthy obsession with his dick, maybe?
Ronan:Or maybe Knox just lost his balls.
Cole:RIP.
Knox:I’m right fucking here in case you forgot, arseholes.
Aiden:Even fucking better.
Needless to say,it’s become a running joke in that fucking group chat that I’m contemplating muting until someone else becomes the joke. The most likely candidate—Ron.
Point is, this whole mess is because of Anastasia.
Deep in the back of my mind, I recognize that this is headed to the unhealthy obsession level, that I shouldn’t allow myself to be sucked into such a bottomless pit.
Which is why I have to fuck her out of my system, once and for all. That’s the plan, anyway, when I walk into the supply room.
But I’m greeted with light.
There’s never light when I take her against the wall and wrench one orgasm after the other from her. Anastasia hates it, I realize—the light. She’s more comfortable in the darkness, like me, where we can be ourselves without thinking about our identities, where we are, or the consequences.
It’s on now, the supply room’s white neon light, and it highlights the dullness of the space. The unorganized piles of papers lying around that should be in the archives.
It also puts focus on the tiny woman standing in the middle of it all, arms crossed and foot tapping on the floor. A red flush covers her cheeks and her lips are pursed in a stiff line.
I know I should probably focus on her obvious displeasure, but my gaze is stolen by the undone third button of her blouse and the hint of her lace bra and creamy breast. I would’ve never pegged her as the lacy type, but she is and it’s a fucking turn-on.
“Do you have anything to tell me?” she asks in a tone as rigid as her posture.
“I love the view.”
She follows my gaze and bunches her hand in her shirt, then jerkily buttons it. “You’re such a pervert.”
“Let me turn off the lights and I’ll show you how much of a pervert I actually am.”
“Like hell you will.” She stomps toward me, the force in her steps rattling her small body. “Didn’t you say you hate liars?”
“I did.”
“Then why are you one yourself?”
