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Twelve
Gage
As soon asI walk into my bedroom, I rip out of my jeans and head straight to the shower, desperate to tend to my hard-as-a-rock cock. The water rains down on me while I settle one hand against the tiled wall and stroke myself using the other, the same way I have done for years while thinking about her.
Rough and hard and fast.
Anger and frustration mingled with lust.
Lauren was as turned on as I was.
She wanted to fuck, and so help me God, I wanted to fuck her more than anything. More than when I had been a horny teen, sticking my dick into her for the first time.
I pump my hips, imagining it’s her hand instead of mine, her lips sucking my tip. Even if she had wanted it, there was no way I wouldn’t be disgusted with myself for letting her touch my dick after Susie the Grinder had her hands on me.
“Fuck, Lauren,” I grunt out. “Fuck yes.”
My cum shoots down the drain as I catch my breath.
Letting her move in was a bad idea.
Letting her back into my head was a terrible idea.
This time, it’ll be tougher getting her out.
* * *
My hand clenchesaround my phone when I read the text my friend—slash—once partner from Chicago sent me this morning.
Luke: Missy applied for an appeal.
Motherfucker. That won’t be happening on my watch. My hands shake as I type out my response.
Me: I’ll die before I allow that to happen.
I have to stop myself from throwing my phone across the room.
Luke: I’m with you, bro. I’ll ask around and collect as much info as I can.
Me: Appreciate it.
Luke: You doing okay?
Me: As good as I can be.
Luke: Take care of yourself. You have my number if you need anything.
Me: Thanks, man.
A text comes in with the link to Missy’s appeal paperwork. My teeth grit, my shoulders turning tense, while I slowly read it, taking in word by word. I nearly drop my phone at the sound of a knock at the front door. I shove it into my pocket and kick my feet against the hardwood floor on my way to answer it.
My interest piques when I eye Lauren through the glass. She’s moving from one foot to the other, and the sight of her wearing one of my high school tees helps ease some of the anger from Luke’s revelation. I hope like hell our conversation will stop me from boarding the first flight to Chicago to raise hell.
“Hey,” she greets when I step out onto the porch and shut the door behind me.
Her short blue pajama shorts, which stop mid-thigh and show off her toned legs, are an extension to one of my old T-shirts. Traces of her nipples cut through the fabric of the white tee.
Shit, don’t stare.
