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BRETT
“Fuck, Misty, you can suck a cock,” I hiss, looking down at the blond head of the woman currently deep throating me. Her big, tan fake tits push out of her sports bra. I twist one of her nipples, my other hand tightening on the back of her hair.
“You gonna swallow this morning.” It’s not a question because I know she’ll swallow. With a grunt, I let go, shooting my load straight down her throat. She gags but takes it all like the pro she is. Jerking her head off me, I grin while she licks her lips like a cat who just drank some cream. Standing, she reaches to pull off her black leggings, but I slap her ass.
“Not today, Mist. First day of classes.” I flash her a grin.
She freezes midjerk to straighten, giving me a prime view of her toned body and fully waxed pussy.
“But I’ll be quick.” She pouts, her fingers trailing up and down her well-toned abs.
“Can’t. But feel free to take care of yourself while I shower,” I say over my shoulder, jerking my sweaty T-shirt off. We had just finished our morning run on the beach when Misty attacked my cock.
Literally.
Hank, her eighty-six-year-old husband, is at his dermatologist appointment, getting another laser treatment so his old face can look even more waxy.
Who am I to say no to her? It wouldn’t be friendly, or neighborly for that matter. When she flounces onto my dark-green couch, I smirk.
“You’re lucky you have a giant cock and are pretty,” she huffs as she shimmies out of her leggings and promptly starts to rub her clit. Her loud porn star moans make me smile as I walk into my bathroom to start the shower.
Misty’s been my neighbor, and sometimes workout partner, for years. We hook up when I don’t have someone in my life. She was a huge porn star in her early twenties; then she met and married her current husband Hank, retired, and moved to Malibu to be a trophy wife.
Hank can’t get it up anymore. Misty is fun and no drama. That, and she can take my giant cock and deep throat it.
I don’t bother turning on the hot water—I take cold showers to keep my mind and body sharp—and soap myself up as I go over my day. I have the welcome back breakfast meeting for the engineering school, where one-hundred-and-fifty of my colleagues and staff will listen to the same shit we hear every year. I’ll stop by, smile, nod, grab a cup of coffee, and leave.
Next, I need to make a quick syllabus for this Engineering 101 class I said I’d cover. Jamie Knight just had a baby and is on maternity leave, so I said I’d help out. It’ll be good for me, keep me on my toes since I taught only one freshman class last year.
I shut off my shower and step out, grabbing my towel to dry quickly. I don’t hear Misty, so I assume she left. This is why we’ve stayed friends for so long. She wants nothing from me, well, besides my dick. We both get off with no strings attached.
Rubbing the towel back and forth on my wet hair, I toss it in the corner.
Walking into my bedroom and grabbing a pair of dark jeans, I pull them on and look out at my ocean view. I inherited this house from my grandparents. Well, both Jett and I did, but since he’s a multimillionaire, I got it.
It’s prime property on the ocean in Malibu. I could never afford anything close to this on my salary, and over time, I’m slowly remodeling it. This summer, I spent the break making it completely solar, even replacing the entire front of my house with energy-efficient windows. Now, when you walk in, you’re greeted with nothing but the sky and ocean for as far as you can see.
The house is my pride, my joy, and pretty much my baby. I pull a dress shirt off a hanger and walk out to the kitchen for my phone. I know a lot of deans like that old feel of corduroy and a tweed blazer, but that’s not me. I don’t even wear a suit unless I’m forced to wear one.
Turning off sleep mode, I move to my refrigerator for some orange juice, checking the traffic on PCH. It’s crap as usual, so I’ll take my bike—it needs to stretch its legs, so to speak, anyway.
“Jesus.” I sigh and frown at the text from Skylar.
SKYLAR: Want to grab lunch?
Taking another quick swig, I glance at the five, no six, texts from her earlier. They range from questions about my trip to what kind of wine did we drink on our first date.
I don’t bother responding or reading the rest, and pocket my phone. I should have known better. This is my fault. But what part ofit’s overis she not comprehending? It’s been almost a month. When I was in Spain, I was lulled into thinking she’d moved on, since her calls and incessant texts had slowed.
Clearly, we’re not going back to our former friendly banter. Who am I kidding? Much like all my relationships, as soon as I put my dick in, the friend thing goes out the window.
Women can’t seem to understand I’m not boyfriend material. And it’s not like I lie to them or lead them on. I’m nothing but honest.
I. Don’t. Want. A. Relationship. Pretty simple. I don’t have time for one, and honestly, no one holds my interest mentally or physically for more than a month or so anyway. And they all say the same thing:Don’t worry, we’re on the same page. Then I fuck them, and that page changes.
With a shake of my head, I jerk on my shoes, grab my bag full of work stuff, and suit up for the ride. Trying to shrug off an incoming headache thanks to Skylar and her drama, I lock my door. Good thing Misty blew me. It’s left me with a small amount of calm and patience.
Heading to my Suzuki Hayabusa, I take a breath and look around. The morning mist is burning off, I’m getting ready for a new semester, and life is good. All this other shit is just dribble and will work itself out as I straddle my baby and start her up. An instant buzz of adrenaline flows through my veins as I twist the throttle and gun the bike out of my garage and onto PCH.
