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damien
. . .
I stretchand yawn in my familiar bed from high school, my muscles achy as if I've spent a day at the gym. If I got two hours of sleep last night, it was a miracle.
That's what pent-up lust does: accumulates in my body like a toxin, leaving me feeling like I want to claw my skin off. I'd spent half the night tossing and turning and the other half jerking off, thinking about all the things I wanted to do with Kate.
Because I sure didn't get a chance to do any of them last night.
After Chunky's fart fireworks, Kate and I watched a movie. Well, made out and tried to watch a movie. Okay, I didn't watch shit. I don't even remember the title.Daredevil? Was that it? I'd let her choose.
Basically, it was extreme cuddling. I don't think I've ever done that with anyone. It was excruciating and tempting and the best two hours I've had in years. It wasn't right to drag her into my room and get naked. Like I told her, I don't want a casual fuck.
I want so much more.
I drove her back to her car, and we made out some more inthe parking lot of the bar. Sometime between us kissing on my parents' sofa and her grinding into me in my dad's wagon, we decided we needed to find somewhere private for a night. I told her I'd handle it.
Trouble is, I want more than one night with Kate. I think she wants more than that, too, but who the hell knows? I've never paid this much attention to a woman or to what she thinks. Usually my "relationships" are casual hookups, friends with benefits, temporary flings during a stopover in Germany or London.
I throw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie then yank open my bedroom door. My twin brother is sprawled on the sofa in the upstairs den.
"Dude."
Remy's playing a video game. I grunt a hello. He's far more of a morning person than I am. More of an afternoon, evening and all-day person, too. Even though we're twins, he somehow inherited Mom's sunny, happy personality.
I'm more like dad. Grumpy.
"Jesus, what got into you? Didn't you get laid last night with Kate?"
I stop in the middle of the room, blocking his view of the TV. He waves his hand and growls at me to move the hell away.
When was the last time I beat his ass? Has enough time elapsed so I could safely do it again right now?
Instead, I roll my eyes. Taking a couple of steps, I pause and turn. "How the hell do you know about Kate?"
He punches on the game console with his thumbs and doesn't even look at me; he's so focused on the action on-screen.
"Mom."
Of course. The two of them probably planned the wedding over breakfast. "Jesus."
With a press of the button, the shoot-em-up actionsilences. I hate those games, probably because I've lived them. Remy turns to me.
"You into her?"
I dig my hands into my hoodie pocket. "Maybe."
"How's that going to work with you leaving? You've always liked her, you know that?"
"You need your own TV show, you know that?" I mock him mercilessly, every chance I get. "You'd be like Dr. fucking Phil. Only tan. You could host the show on a boat and give relationship advice."
I flop down on a brown microsuede chair that matches the sofa and groan. "I don't fucking know. She's..." I wave my hand in the air. "Awesome to be around."
"That's a great idea, about the TV show. So when are you going to screw?"
"Dude, we can't hook up. She's staying with her mom, and I'm here. Last night, we came back and Tate's dog unleashed his own brand of chemical warfare that killed the mood."
"You wanna use my yacht?"
