In her stupid, unsafe, slobby-ass motel room, staring up at me with those eyes that are bluer than the Caribbean, bluer than the sky itself, bluer than the ice on the underside of an iceberg, just after it’s flipped. Her hand on my chest.Touchingme—touchingme.
Felt like being burned. Branded. I got into the G-Wagen and legit checked my skin under my shirt, I was so sure my flesh had been branded into a palm print.
Nothing but my skin, no new scars.
Still feel it, though.
I smell her—she’s in my sheets, in the air of my room.
I’ve been telling myself I’m not gonna do it. Not gonna use her innocence for my own sick pleasure.
But she’s in my fucking brain, under my skin. Thoughts of her make my cock hard enough to drive nails, and it won’t subside. Even thinking of the ugly shit I’ve seen and done has no effect.
I’m not even letting myself imagine her fine ass naked. It wouldn’t be difficult—ass and legs for days, tits for fuckin’years.That woman naked? I’d blow my load like a teenager, just looking at her.
Of course, I don’t even want to count how long it’s been since I’ve touched a woman. Since coming to this place, and all the days blur together.
You have enemies, Rev.My employer’s words are burned into my skull.It would be best to not forget that, especially where innocent young women are concerned. Should your trouble spill onto her…He hadn’t needed to finish it.
I’ll never see her again. I think I made that clear. And her outright disgust at the memory of Hel should serve as a deterrent to keep her away.
Which means it should be safe to let myself have this one moment, just to get her out of my damn system.
“Fuck,” I growl.
My dick aches, painfully. It’s been harder than an oak tree for over an hour, and nothing I think of will make it go away, and even breathing exercises have no effect.
“Fuck it,” I murmur.
I kick my blankets back, my shorts off. Grip my throbbing cock in my fist and jerk it, raw and rough. I can’t help thinking of her—and I can’t help my mind from picturing what I wish could happen, what I know will never happen.
Her, straddling my thighs. Naked, heavy breasts bare. I figure she’ll have those pale areolae with the nearly invisible nipples, just pale pointed tits, maybe a bit of an upward slope to them at the tips. Her hands would be on me, gripping me instead of my own fist. Hair loose around her shoulders, a cloud of gold and honey. Just touching me. Stroking me. Maybe she’d go slow. Gentle. Even when I started coming, she’d go slow and soft.
The idea of her small pale soft hands on the iron of my erection is all it takes—I spurt a mess onto my stomach, and my gut is already roiling with guilt. That woman is purity and innocence and sweetness.
She says heckle-schmeckle and gosh.
She may think she wants to see me again, but if she knew I was doing this, thinking about her like this? She’d ghost me, and probably chuck her dinner on the way.
I clean up and get back in bed, not bothering with clothes.
I’m drifting toward something like sleep, finally.
But when I do, it’s with thoughts of her and another hard-on.
* * *
Fifteen hourslater
I’m carting two cases of Coors from the stockroom through the maze behind the many bars in the club. Ingo, the bartender with the blue mohawk, is working a party of golf/tech bros who’re sucking down Coors like it’s Gatorade. Inez has sent some of the girls from Hel up here to keep ‘em company, since they’ve got gold passes—free beer but you pay for shots—which means they’re spending a fortune on shots of Jäger. The girls are there to tease, to keep ‘em drinking, to keep ‘em here as long as possible.
While I carry the cases, on one each shoulder, I’m scanning the crowd. Watching for trouble. I clock a pair of girls who’ve had way too many, dancing with each other, half leaning on each other, about to fall over. There’s a dude behind them, wearing a pink polo with the collar popped—fuckin’ douche—hoping they’re drunk enough to let him skeeve on them both. And…they are. He’s got a hip in each hand, his head between theirs, moving in rhythm with them both. It’s not my job to keep drunk sorority bitches from making bad decisions, but I figure I’ll keep an eye on them.
I also spot a guy who’s becoming a regular, and he’s got a habit of picking the not-as-hot friend out of the groups of girls and making his moves on them. It works—I’ve seen him leave just about every night with a different chick. Most of ‘em he leaves with are fours or five at best, but I guess to him, pussy is pussy, whether she’s a four or a ten.
I haul the Coors up to the back corner bar of the second floor, drop them to Ingo. He takes them from me and starts putting them into the cooler immediately, but catches my eye and jerks his head for me to join him. I crouch near him.
“What’s up?” I shout.
