seem to love—and focus my mouth around the base of him. I taste another drip of pre-cum. His hands, now threaded through my hair, curl into fists as he thrusts into my throat. He groans loudly. Grunts. I feel a flash of sheer lust, imagining his huge dick in my pussy. Damn, he’s close. I’m close. I realize with a bolt of shock that I am wet and throbbing too.
And then, as I suck my cheeks in hard and grasp his sac, his hips buck; he spurts like a fountain down my throat. His body shudders mightily, and I marvel at the moisture that’s pooled in between my thighs. I’ve never enjoyed giving blow jobs, but this was something else.
I stare down at him as I stand up. His eyes are closed, his head leaned back against the chair.
But his legs are wide open—cock still mostly hard, his balls hanging without a care.
His eyes peek open too, right then, confirming my hunch that Kellan Walsh is not someone who relaxes for long. His gaze connects with mine. I grin.
And then, before he or I can speak, before another proposition can be made or another kinky phrase exchanged, I ram my knee between his legs.
I hear him grunt, but I am on the move, grabbing my shirt and shoes and darting out the door, dashing down the hall and down the stairs. Down the stairs and to my car. I hit the driver’s side so hard it hurts my ribs. I hoist myself over the door and fumble with my keys. I’m cranking the car before I catch my breath, gassing it as my head spins.
I glance behind me, half expecting to see his Sexcalade bouncing down the dirt drive after me. Half expecting to see him in my back seat.
But... nothing.
Nothing as I leave his dirt road.
Nothing as I pull over to put my shirt and shoes on.
Nothing on the drive home.
Nothing as I contemplate if he was really what he said. If he really wanted what he said, or if he was simply playing me.
Nothing as I shower, study, slip into my bed.
And then my phone lights up.
I’M SUCH A FUCKING LIAR.
I think the thing about it that bothers me most is how weak it makes me feel.
I tick them off:
Would she believe me if I told her I make a damn good crème brûlée? I’m not sure why I asked. It doesn’t matter if she’d believe me, because I can. I’m a great motherfucking cook. I cooked for my brothers for years. But after I told her that, I backed away from it. I don’t even know why. Scratch that: yes I do.
My second dumb lie: ice cream. I hate the shit, so why did I say that? Having her in my house made me uneasy. As much as I want her here so we can fuck ourselves into oblivion, I can’t stand having anyone close. Everything about me is... forbidden. So many reasons.
So I told her things about him.
I rub my temples, but the pressure only gets worse. The deep green canopy I’m staring at seems to sag a little lower over me.
Lie three: Leading her to believe, even for a moment, that any dealer has ever lived with me to be ‘trained’. There was Nessa, for that one night—but I let her go. I didn’t even fuck her. At times, I’ve almost wished I had. But it wasn’t like that with us. It’s still not. Oh, I wish it was. I wish it could be. Not because I would want to ruin our friendship that way, but because it would mean...
I close my eyes, and I remember the cool glass wall against my forearm. I remember how hot the cell phone was, pressed against my ear. I can hear the awful sound that came out of my throat April 29 when they called to tell me: the first domino that fell in this last chain of events.
I moved out of this bedroom because I couldn’t stand to see the window anymore. Because, after that moment four months ago, I dismissed my then-sub, Gina, without a single word, and told myself she’d be the last.
There were other lies today as well. The way I set Cleo up to come to my place. Having Matt tell Lora, Cleo’s friend, that he deals to other dealers sometimes. Intentionally omitting that if Cleo moves in with me, she’ll spend most of her time cuffed, suspended, or spread-eagle on the middle