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I don’t rememberthe drive from Mia’s place to mine, but I realize I’ve made it when I pull into the parking spot reserved for me.
Stumbling to the elevator, I make my way to the condo on the third floor, dripping water the whole way. I can’t stop thinking of Mia. The way her eyes flashed with anger, how her cheeks flushed with red. As I close the door and strip off my sodden clothes, I picture how she looked standing there, furious, her nipples poking through her wet shirt.
My cock aches for her. I’m so hard, it’s doubly difficult to take off my pants. I strip them off and let them land with a wet smack on the bathroom floor, then turn on the shower to heat it up.
I wanted to kiss her. The moment she opened the door, I wanted to tug her close and crush my lips to hers, then throw her over my shoulder and carry her somewhere safe. I’d kill to feel her soften against me, to have her hands plowing through my hair, to feel her whimper and sigh at the taste of my lips.
My hand wraps around my throbbing flesh, and as the bathroom fills up with steam, I lean against the bathroom sink and stroke my cock at the thought of that little blond firecracker who hates my guts. She’s wound up so tight, I bet she’s dying for release. If I could lay her down on the bed, spread those sweet thighs, and find nirvana between them, I’d die happy.
When she yells at me, furious and tense, all I can think about is how badly I want to slide my cock between her lips. It’s wrong. It’s depraved. I’m a complete degenerate for wanting her that way, but I can’t fucking help it.
As my breaths become jagged, I think about that evening two weeks ago, when I saw her at the Art’s Cove gallery opening. She looked like sunlight incarnate in a golden gown, golden jewelry, and golden hair. Now, I imagine what would have happened if she were mine.
That night, I would’ve tugged her gown up to her waist and worshipped her body. I would’ve made her scream my name while she came on my tongue with her thighs wrapped around my head. I would’ve gathered her limp, sated body in my arms, pressing myself down on top of her until she moaned my name, then spread her legs wide with my knees and buried myself in her wet heat.
My movements become jerky, almost spasmodic, as my fist tugs up and down my shaft. When I think of Mia on my bed, splayed out before me, moaning my name, pressure builds at the base of my spine. I’ve wanted her from the moment she glared at me when I walked into her barbershop. I’ve wanted her every way I can imagine. I’ve been dying to taste the honey between her legs.
She’ll never let me have her—but mercy, I want her bad. Thinking of that pink tank top clinging to her curves, and how much my mouth was begging to latch onto her puckered nipples, I come in thick lashes into the sink. Panting heavily, I grip the edge of the vanity in an iron-hard grip.
The mirror is fogged, so I don’t have to look myself in the eye as I clean up the mess and go take a shower.
By the timeI’m dressed again, Mia still hasn’t texted. Part of me is worried she won’t message me at all. Maybe she’ll decide the hotel is the better bargain, even though I’m offering her something nicer, free of charge.
Staring at my phone doesn’t make her text me, so I open the dating app I joined last month. It’s called Blind Date, and it’s supposed to allow people to forge deeper connections before they can exchange pictures or even names.
The only woman who’s remotely interested me on it has the username of NaturalBlondie. We’ve exchanged a few messages over the past couple of weeks, mostly just light flirting and one-liner jokes by legendary comedian, Mitch Hedberg. We haven’t made any plans to meet or even exchanged names. When I mentioned coffee, she didn’t answer for a full day, and then she changed the subject. Neither of us knows what the other does for work, or much beyond what we’ve put on our profiles.
It’s low stakes, but we’ve talked every couple of days for a few weeks. As far as dating goes, for me, that constitutes a success.
Now, as I stare at my silent phone, I wonder if I should put more effort into it. Have I been avoiding NaturalBlondie because I’m obsessed with a different blonde? What happened just now, in the bathroom—that isn’t the first time. I’ve jerked myself off to the thought of Mia so many times, I should be ashamed of myself. When I first met her a few months ago, she lifted her chin and challenged me. She literally called me a B-movie goon in a cheap suit. Half of me wanted to laugh, and the other half wanted to bend her over one of her barber’s chairs and take her right then and there.
I’ve been crazy for her ever since.
Unfortunately, I’m the guy who raised her rent and made her life exponentially more difficult. She hates my guts and has made it plainly obvious. And I guess a part of me thinks I deserve it.
I’d explain to her that my grandparents have been ripped off by their property manager for the past fifteen years, and I’ve got a hell of a job ahead of me to fix up the mess, especially with my grandfather’s medical bills piling up. But my grandparents don’t deserve their business spread around town like that. I can be the bad guy to Mia and everyone else—I’m used to being on the outside, used to not belonging. Been that way since I was eleven years old.
I open the Blind Date app and look for my messages with NaturalBlondie. If I can’t have Mia, I might as well distract myself with the only other woman in my life who seems remotely interested. But before I can do anything, my phone lights up.
I groan, letting it ring a couple of times. Finally, with a sigh, I swipe to answer. “Vince,” I growl.
“Hello,brother.” In Vince’s voice, the word “brother” sounds like an insult. It’s a subtle jab to remind me I’ll neverreallybe his brother. Technically speaking, we’re cousins by blood, brothers by adoption. He doesn’t call his actual brother by that particular nickname.
“What do you want?”
“It’s ten weeks until Thanksgiving. Caitlyn and I were just admiring the Thomas Trophy and looking forward to another victory this year. Thought I’d call and ask if you’d found a date, or if you’ll be paired up with Grandma Maude again?”
Very few people have the ability to rile me up. Mia is one; a single look from her, and I want to either fight or drop to my knees and worship her. My brother Vince is another. One word, and the urge to punch him is too strong to ignore.
“Your gloating is pathetic.”
Vince laughs. “Is it? That’s three years in a row I’ve won the race, Des. No one’s ever won it four times. I could make family history.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “Making family history by winning our yearly Thanksgiving three-legged couples’ race. You should be so proud.”
“Every time I look at the trophy, I am.”
I can just imagine his smarmy smile, and it infuriates me. I know, I know—I’m forty-one years old. I shouldn’t care about petty things like a yearly family tradition. It’s a three-legged race; it’s hardly the Olympics. I shouldn’t care that Vince is harassing me over two months before the big event.
