his wet body against mine, feel the length of his hardness against me…inside me.
“Fuck!” I bark at him before bolting out of the room. I’m not doing this again. I’m not.
As I reach my hallway again, I try not to think about the urge billowing inside me, the sudden fucking need to go back into that bathroom and shut off every thought in my head with his body.
Instead, I clench my fist and drive it hard against the drywall of my bedroom. The plaster cracks as the pain travels like lightning up my arm and l swallow down the urge to scream.
Why did I bring him here and why the fuck can’t I just move on?
19
Amsterdam
I can’t focus. Truth be told, I haven’t been able to focus on much at all lately, not when every free moment of my day is spent thinking about that night last week and everything that happened. The feel of that paddle in my hands, the way it felt making contact with her backside, the pain that came out in cries from her mouth, and then of course, the sight of him, tongue out and tasting me.
Tasting me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tossing my laptop aside on the couch. There’s no denying the thoughts in my head, and they are fucked up. He’s my friend. No, actually, he’s my dad’s friend. Not to mention, a man, and if I was into dick, surely, I’d know by now. Wouldn’t I?
Picking up my phone, I shoot him a quick text.
What’s the plan tonight?
His response comes back immediately.
There is no plan. Come over.
I’m staring at my phone for a long time. I could call it an early night, say I’m not feeling well, pass on any plans like drinking or inviting some girls over.
I won’t, but I could.
Instead, I go to the bathroom, fix my hair, throw on some cologne, and march out the door. On the ride over, I rehearse the plan in my head. We are going to drink. Maybe call someone. Maybe go out to the bar. At the end of the night, I will ride home. No more staying over, especially not in his bed. No more blurring these lines.
It’s not my fault Zara fucked me up so bad, but I can’t spiral like this. That’s all this is. Maybe I’ll call my therapist tomorrow, talk a little more about those phases of grief. Is wanting to fuck your best friend one of them? Probably not.
Ugh, the thought turns sour in my head. Get your shit together, Nash. It’s fucking embarrassing.
Regardless of the silent pep talk in the tram on the way over, I’m a ball of nerves when I get to Ellis’s apartment. Using the extra key he gave me, I slip inside, hoping to wipe every thought from my head. But he’s not in the living room or kitchen when I enter.
“I’m in the office,” he calls, and I give him a nonchalant response that sounds way too forced in my head. Why is my voice coming out all deep like this? What the fuck is wrong with me?
Slipping off my shoes, I go to the kitchen first. I need a drink. The fridge is stocked with beers, Heineken of course, so I grab one and pop the top, downing almost all of it at once. Hopefully this will help calm my damn nerves. The nerves I’m feeling for no fucking reason at all.
Now that I think about it…drinking probably isn’t the best idea. Oh well, I think as I finish the bottle.
“Come take a look at this for me,” he calls from the office. Even his voice has the hairs on my arm standing.
After tossing my bottle in the recycling bin under the sink, I head toward the office with every fucking intention of sticking to my plan. What I don’t expect is Ellis standing there in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in nothing but a pair of loose jeans, no shirt, and still-wet hair from the shower.
I pause in the doorway. He’s facing his desk, holding a few papers in his hands.
“Read this and tell me if you can find a clause about confidential provisions. I’m not signing shit until I know it’s clean and my lawyer won’t be up until tomorrow morning. She’s in the states.”
He’s rambling, and I barely hear a word, my eyes glued to the way those jeans hug his ass. After a moment of me not answering, he finally turns toward me with an arch in his