Page 55 of Broken Warrior
My palms pressagainst the cool tile as I drop my head forward, touch my chin to my chest, and let the scorching water rain down on the back of my neck. My neck that is full of knots from a restless fucking night.
I tossed and turned for hours, got up and paced for even longer. I’ve always struggled with insomnia; my mind just runs way too fast sometimes, so fast that even the drugs barely took the edge off, but it’s worse now and not just because I’m sober.
I’m alone.
For the first time in almost thirty-six years, I’m completely alone.
No parents down the hall, no mother yelling for me or whoever I was to her at the time, no brothers to crash at the clubhouse with, no sweet butt to shack up with. I’m alone in my childhood home, alone with the ghosts that haunt these walls and it’s starting to get to me.
I like my solitude, don’t get me wrong. I’m known for taking off for days at a time, but even then I was either too wrecked emotionally to realize how bad things were or I was with someone insignificant—like my drug dealer—to even notice, but this just feels different.
The solitude is much more profound now, has more of an impact because it speaks to how far I’ve come on my bumpy as hell journey, and despite the lack of sleep, I both enjoy and despise the time on my own.
No obligations, no forced responsibility or burdens, just me and my thoughts, all of which were reflective to say the least.
And most of which revolve around my day today.
I spent a lot of time journaling, something I’ve started doing as part of my recovery, and I’ve been making lists of goals, things I want to work toward, as well as things I’ve already accomplished. I even allowed myself to write out big picture goals, things like maintaining my sobriety long term, building a house close to my brothers, and being a more active participant in their lives while allowing them into mine. It’s the last two things on that list that had me up most of the night though, things I thought were impossibilities for most of my life, things I never thought I deserved because they were positive and happy, things I most definitely have not been for years.
I addedget marriedandstart a family.
All thanks to a dark angel that blew into my life like a warm breeze on a cold, dreary day.
I groan as the water continues to pelt my neck and shoulders, my eyes opening and landing on the most persistent erection known to man.
Prior to getting sober, I had the same problem, the mere thought of Tate in any capacity turning my dick to stone, but the last three months I’ve been so focused on my recovery and taking steps toward a brighter future there’s been little time for entertaining thoughts like this, let alone much else. Now that I’m in a place where I can start to pursue the woman I love, seriously make an effort to be the man she deserves, I’m right back to popping boners like it’s my job to do so.
Yeah, it’s only been twenty-four hours, but I spent most of last night battling my painfully hard dick, and that more than the lack of sleep is why I’m so fucking wiped this morning. And judging by the way my cock is practically waving at me, I think it’s probably time to give in and take care of it so I’m not awkwardly aroused the entire time I’m with Tate today.
The woman definitely has that effect on me.
I’m doing it for her, really.
Yeah, there we go.
I’ll be jerking off for Tate so I don’t maul her the second I see her for the first time in months,m’eudailno doubt more beautiful than the images in my mind.
I close my eyes and slide my hand down my chest slowly, imagine it’s Tate touching me. Her slender fingers sliding over the tattoo of my family crest and club logo that spans my pecs, tracing the defined lines of my torso, the hard ridges of my abs. I groan as my fist closes around the base of my cock and gives it a squeeze, her delicate hand the one I see sliding toward the engorged tip, and running her thumb over it, spreading the precum back down my length before she gives my balls a firm tug.
I moan louder than intended as I picture Tate getting to her knees, licking her Cupid’s bow lips before she runs her tongue from root to tip, swirls it around the head of my cock before she takes me in her mouth. Every pump, every stroke of my hand is replaced by her mouth, hot and slick just like I imagine Tate’s pussy to be. My pace quickens, my grip tightening while I imagine my dark angel hollowing her cheeks and sucking my dick like she was born to do it. I can even see a ring of her dark lipstick around the base, the one she was wearing when she gave me the lap dance, a mark of possession as Tate owns my body the same way she owns my heart.
Another tug and squeeze to my balls has me grunting, has heat racing down my spine and spreading through my gut. I’m close, so fucking close, and when I picture Tate playing with her breasts, slipping a hand between her thighs to ease the ache sucking my cock creates, I come with a roar all over the tile wall of my shower.
My entire body shakes as I wring every last drop of my release from my dick, stroking and squeezing until there’s nothing left, until I’m twitching and jerking, my body only temporarily sated.
I should probably feel guilty for doing that, have some ounce of remorse for objectifying the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. But I don’t. I don’t feel anything like that to be honest, not like I used to when I’d jerk off to similar images of Tate before I was sober. The only things I feel are temporary relief and the boundless love I have for her because those feelings as well as being attracted to her are natural and healthy, and having them is something I can accept as a positive thing. Every single one of my feelings—Tate related or not—are valid and ok, and feeling them without the negative backlash or desire to use them as punishment is progress in my journey to a healthier and happier me.
If I’d have known therapy was going to be so goddamn helpful, I would have asked my dad to put me in it the first time I ever told him about the shit that had happened to me.
I blow out a ragged breath.
Hopefully that’ll tide me over for a while.
At least long enough to get through our coffee date.
I finish my shower, spend way too long deciding what to wear before I settle on the norm—a white t-shirt, black jeans, my cut, and boots—finger comb my hair and take off toward Hot Sip.
When I get there fifteen minutes early, I opt to wait out front. The shop is busy, a little more packed than I thought it’d be for eleven on a Thursday, but it is June and Sabine Woods is in full summertime swing.
