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What’s more, I know how greedy she is for my cock.
I think she’d agree to it.
Raw, deviant, no-strings-attached fucking for our mutual benefit.
The kind where I dominate her, where she offers me her willing submission in exchange for sex she’ll never forget and that will make her gasp at the thought of it for years to come.
I've been playing the conversation out these last few days…
She’d probably be outraged when I first suggested it, tell me to go fuck myself, hard, but once I explain the benefits of allowing me to give her the kind of pleasure I know full well she’s never experienced with the incompetent fucks she’s allowed to fumble around her body, she won’t be able to give in.
I need to be rid of this fucking curse, to enjoy a meal without imagining her lips enveloping the food at the table, enveloping my cock, wondering whether she’d be enjoying the main course, whether she’d laugh at Kennedy’s jokes, contemplating how easily I could carry her into my home at the end of the night.
I stare down at my finished plate, blocking everyone out, imagining that the blonde whose name I’d struggle to recall if you put it in a list of three, and who is currently stroking my hard cock is actually the girl who has so rudely infiltrated my mind.
The woman’s voice yanks me unceremoniously out of thoughts of another. “What do you say?” she whispers.
As her voice grates, I reach under the table and coil my hand around her wrist, gently pulling it away from me and placing it down onto her lap. Our eyes meet, hers sparkling as she bites her lip in a way that reminds me of a bonobo in heat. I may once have found it vaguely stimulating, but the lack of subtlety is suddenly lackluster in the extreme in light of the unexpected experience of Indigo’s vulnerability.
Two months on and every fucking thing still feels tainted by her.
I can’t keep going like this. I have to do something.
Hell, maybe she’ll thank me too. For all I know, she’s afflicted with the dregs of whatever was activated between us and wants some reprieve.
I mean, she does still tell me to go fuck myself a lot if I dare ask how she is. She doesn’t like that question one bit. I doubt she’d do that if she didn’t still feel something.
“I have other plans tonight,” I respond flatly, making sure that she knows I’m not interested in round two.
“Maybe I can convince you otherwise?” she whispers, biting her lip.
“You won’t,” I retort coldly.
“Honestly, I’d just take a very quick fuck, Greyson.”
The utterance of my name by her shoots a net of claustrophobia around me, and as my throat tightens, I unlock my gaze and get to my feet, offering her a cursory, “Excuse me,” in the process.
I head down the hallway and use the washroom. As I wash my hands, I stare at myself in the mirror, not even sure who I see.
But that particular dissonance isn’t new.
I look like my father—tall and with the same build, with his thick brown hair, albeit his now flecked with gray, and the same golden skin tone and features—the straight nose, the angular cheekbones, the strong chin.
Except for one feature—my eyes.
His are a muddy hazel, brown in low light.
Mine are a pale gray. Like my mother’s.
That’s why they called me Greyson—because I emerged with what my mother called the most mesmerizing gray eyes… like little spheres of shiny silver.
I remember her using those words when she told me about the day I was born.
And when I look in the mirror, I see my father’s face and body, but my mother’s eyes staring back at me, every time, as if she’s talking to me through the vessel of him. And it jars me each time, taking me back to a time whose memories haven’t faded despite the concerted efforts of everyone around me which have led me to my mutism on the subject… especially since the death of my mother’s sister with whom I could share secrets. She’s the only one I could ever talk to about it.
Gideon knows most of the story, but not all of it. Not the worst part, the part that stops me from being able to take a full breath.
I finish rinsing the soap from my hands, drying them before heading back out to join my friends and tonight’s new acquaintance, who have all moved from the dining table to a large chestnut sectional on the other side of the large modern living room.
