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The problem was, it seemed like sex with him was a short-acting drug. And by the time it wore off, I was left feeling foggy and frustrated and in need of every kind of junk food I could find.
I’d torn through half of the dozen donuts that Josie had brought into work with her that morning, then the animal crackers I had stashed in the cabinet, a coffee and grilled cheese I’d ordered in, and had still been jonesing for the stupid white cheddar popcorn.
Like mass amounts of carbs and fat could somehow clear my head. And take the place of toe-curling, voice-box-aching sex.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always enjoyed sex. I mean, if you didn’t like orgasms… something was wrong with you. Their entire purpose was to feel good.
That said, I’d never been so fucking ravenous for an O before. Not to the point of being unable to focus on anything else.
I mean, sure, if you were getting some good dick, you could find your mind wandering here and there throughout the day, and even start to get a little hot and bothered by those thoughts.
This was different.
It was obsessive.
I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin unless I got him inside of me again.
Maybe that was the difference between good dick and world-class dick.
Because Cato?
That man was fucking exceptional in bed.
He could do hard and fast and ruthless. Could spout dirty things that didn’t give me secondhand cringe. But he could also be slow and soft and intuitive.
Still, though.
Once in a twenty-four-hour period should have been enough to sustain me.
Somehow, though, like a drug, it seemed like the more I got, the more I wanted.
It was absolutely ridiculous, but I felt like I could overdose on him and it still wouldn’t be enough. I could be holed up in a hospital bed from sex-related exhaustion or some shit like that, and still be asking the nurse if she could sneak Cato in for a quickie.
It was getting out of control.
Ifeltout of control of my own mind, body, and desires.
I’d even been telling myself that morning as I tore through all the junk food readily available, that the only way to break a habit like this was cold turkey.
Sure, there would be a period where I was moody and aching for him. But, eventually, the urge would pass, and I could function again.
Then the bastard had to go and start using his head, thinking about things, then acting on those thoughts. Bringing him into my office. Where Josie got to hear him talk about using and discarding him.
I knew her. And all her romantic musings. She was probably getting ready to come back and talk to me about how she thought it was so romantic that he came for me, that he was hurt about me running off after sex.
She was probably already planning my wedding.
Macabre, gothic romance elements.
Black gown, of course.
Oh, my God.
NowIwas thinking about my wedding.
I didn’t want a wedding.
My plan was to die with a bunch of sugar babies who would mourn the sudden loss of my money, if not my wrinkly self. And cats. There would be cats involved. I would leave everything I owned to them.
