yielding as she makes room for me inside her.
“Is this what you want, Hana?”
“Yes.” Her hands pull at my shoulders as she licks and bites at my throat for punctuation.
“Good girl.” I add a second finger, testing her reaction, and she moans louder. This is what I love, the feeling of being in control, of pushing her body higher, faster, tighter. I circle her clit slowly, teasing her, and am rewarded with another moan.
How drunk is she? Probably too drunk. It feels like we’re flying, so I hold her extra tight as we swoop down from the top and the ground soars up to meet us. It’s not free fall, but it’s close.
Hana murmurs something, startled. I nip her bottom lip, tasting the alcohol on her mouth. I’m drunk-slow or maybe that’s just the Ferris wheel gliding to a halt.
“Get me down now.” She buries her face in my throat, which means I can’t kiss her anymore. “God, I’d marry you if you just got me down.”
“Deal,” I growl, my voice bourbon-rough.
I shouldn’t, but I’m going to. I’ll add Hana to the list of things I’ve touched and made dirty.
Skip.
We’re back in the big top, but this time I’m in the ring rather than the stands and the tent has mostly emptied out. Outside the sky has that not-dark, not-quite-light quality it gets when dawn and regrets are coming fast. The bourbon is long gone. The ringmaster looks at me, and my beautiful girl giggles. I don’t remember how we got here, but it was my idea. I’m pretty sure I remember that.
“It’s your turn.”
So I say it. “I do.”
Skip.
Skip.
...
CHAPTER ONE
WE’RE A NO GO
Liam
MY EYES ARE CLOSED, but the morning sun turns my vision red. My bones—along with my head and my morning wood—decide this is the perfect moment to start aching like a motherfucker. It’s my first clue that I did it again. I bite the inside of my cheek while I take stock.
I end up in places I shouldn’t when I drink.
I also do things I shouldn’t. Admittedly on purpose, to make myself feel bad, but still.
Mentally, I review what I know, which turns out to be absolutely nothing.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
See? I recognize the panic. It’s what I deserve. I don’t know what I did last night because I was out of control. Blackout drunk like my asshole dad when he’d finally come home after weeks or months away and then get into it with my mother.
Mission thoroughly accomplished.
Picking my way along the road of last night’s memories yields nothing helpful. The memories’ disappearance correlates with the decreasing level in my bourbon bottle. I’d been drunk. I’d partied. I’d...
Done something.
No.
Someone.
This last guess is cheating because I’m not alone in the bed. My arms clutch a curvy, naked body close. The last thing I want is company. And particularly not the female kind. Mornings after come with more expectations than Christmas does presents.
I disappoint when it comes to relationships. My sexual repertoire doesn’t include explanations, apologies, commitments or anything other than straight-up dirty sex. It works better for all parties involved if I put out and then get out before expectations are engendered. I turn my face into the hair of my sleepover companion. She smells clean and sweet, like fruit and something herbal.
I like it.
I need to figure out who I screwed. Then I’ll reach out to my lawyer and he’ll draft an NDA with the appropriate legal names and financial incentives. I spend a moment trying to blind guess who my companion is but last night is fuzzy, the details blurred other than some truly spectacular sex, and even that is more highlights reel than full-length documentary. I’ll have to ask. Or at least open my eyes. I’ve seen too many acquaintances burned badly to let a random hookup escape without signing. If I intend to start sleeping with random unknown girls on a regular basis, I should institute a name tag policy. Hello, My Name Is... stickers to make everything easier. The benefits of being the party host.
“Liam?” My naked sleepover buddy shifts in my arms—why am I spooning her?—and murmurs my name. The sound is feminine, husky and not entirely awake, although she sounds like she’s getting there. She has the voice of a phone sex operator and both my dick and my brain decide that maybe we’re not dying after all. This may have something to do with the way her backside cushions my front as she stretches. I press my mouth against