I want to make it work for me. Because my gut is telling me that this is the one—the dream job that will give me the stability I want and the creative freedom I crave.
For a long time, I thought that was too much to ask. I know how the world works, and I realize how privileged I am to even be considering these goals, much less going after them.
But I figured hey, if I can imagine it, maybe I can make it happen.
So here I am. And unfortunately, I don’t have a boss who believes in me. In fact, I have to prove my worth to him every damn minute of every damn day.
I think about Lindsey again, living in her perfect world. I don’t need perfect. I don’t need to be perfect. But I do have to find success in reaching my goals.
I’ve come this far. And I’m not going to let Samuel Beauregard keep me from making my dreams come true.
Chapter Eight
Samuel
I wake up with a woody.
What am I, a goddamn teenager?
Running a hand down my overgrown stubble, I blink the sleep from my eyes. I had dreams last night.
Vivid, explicit dreams. Someone’s dark arts at work, no doubt.
Might as well revisit them this morning. Maybe starting the day with an orgasm will make it a little less miserable. The internet sex—it’s been liberating.
Too often, I find myself playing into the fantasy of who my hookups think I am—the guy with the smile and the swagger—rather than just being myself. Almost makes me think I don’t want them to know who I am.
Keeping girls at arm’s-length gives me control over the situation. And I like control.
Only yielding that control, in certain situations anyway, has turned out to be the biggest fucking turn-on ever. For the first time in forever, I’m letting someone else take the lead, and I’m legit surprised it hasn’t blown up in my face yet.
I’m not gonna begin to unpack what that says about me. There’s a lesson here, I know, but it’s early days yet. Still, I like the sense of freedom I feel when I’m connecting with this girl. She’s uncovered a side of me I’ve never shown to anyone else, and it’s fun just being who I am with her. No expectations. No fear.
Reaching down, I grab my dick, hissing when I thumb the slit on the underside of my crown, and squeeze my eyes shut.
I fucked her tits last night. So this morning, I imagine I’m rocking into that pretty little cunt of hers as I start to give myself slow, lazy tugs, the heels of those wicked shoes digging into my bare ass.
It hurts.
I like it.
Goddammit, I like her.
My strokes become harder, more urgent. She knows I like it when she takes charge—she knows me—and I surrender when she pushes me off her, rough and raw and hot as hell. I land on my back, and she climbs onto my dick, reverse cowgirl style.
I can see the tops of her bent knees spreading as she rides me. This angle is deep, and I can tell she’s adjusting to it because she goes slowly.
She feels so good. Tight, soft. Vulnerable. She’s equal parts alpha and beta this way. Dominator and doe.
“My hair,” she breathes, her head falling back. “Pull it.”
Only then do I realize her hair is coiled tightly in a bun.
A bun I know well.
When I hesitate, she glances at me over her shoulder, and our eyes lock. Hers are light brown. They’re heavy lidded, but they still burn with honesty. Real need, vulnerability.
My eyes fly open, my hand going still.
What the fuck?
How did Emma end up there? And why does my dick throb urgently at the idea that it’s her fucking me?
I need a cold shower. Immediately. This is a dangerous road, one that leads nowhere.
But my cock is hard in my hand and my balls are screaming bloody murder, and something about the thought of leaving this unfinished is infinitely depressing.
I close my eyes. Working myself harder, faster, I imagine pulling the bobby pins out of her bun. Her hair cascades down her bare back, loose and wild, and when I wrap it around my fist and give it a tug, her pussy tightens around my cock.
No greater satisfaction than making a girl come on your dick.
She digs her fingernails into my thigh. “Harder,” she pants. I can just glimpse her nipples as she arches her back. Pink. Puffy. Perfect. “Deeper. I know you can go deeper, Samuel. Do it.”
I’m sweating now. Squeezing my cock so hard it hurts. I don’t know if I can keep going like this.
“Yes, you can,” she says, reading my thoughts. Her voice is breathy. Nothing held back. Nothing smoothed over. She rolls her hips, milking me and taking me deeper. “Follow me. Yes. Just like that.”
It takes me a beat to get it. But then we fall into a deep, punishing, soul-baring rhythm, speaking our own language without saying a word. I read her: bucking my hips, I spear her on the crest of her thrust, making her whole body jerk. She slaps my thigh in approval. She reads me: noticing how I like it when she plays with my balls, she reaches between her legs and cups them. I pull her hair, lost in pleasure.
“Come with me, Samuel. Right. Now.”
She clamps down on me, going still, and I come.
Hell, I fucking roar, sending the birds outside my window scattering. I jerk the sheets away, narrowly avoiding covering them in ropes of cum.
I climb out of bed on unsteady legs. I’m hollowed out.
I’m one sick bastard.
Hanging my head in the shower, I try to rationalize. Calm down. That weird fantasy—it was just my imagination going into overdrive. Doesn’t help that I’m stressed as hell at work.
I have to get rid of Emma. She’s fucking with my head, and now is not the time to lose my shit. I know what I’m doing. I don’t need her and her lofty ideas.
I can do this job well without help. Because once that help takes over, I’m a goner.
This morning’s fantasy is just me crushing on my new fuck buddy. I just—
Why can’t I find that brand of fearless authenticity before now? Why don’t I ever connect with anyone the way I connect with her?
Really, what the fuck am I doing wrong?
Bang.
Daddy’s cast-iron skillet makes a loud noise as I drop it onto the burner. I should be more careful, but I’m feeling off-kilter today. My hands are unsteady. My entire body is unsteady, as evidenced by the way I keep tripping over my own damn feet.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” a voice behind me says. “Samuel, are you rage cooking?”
I glance over my shoulder to see Hank standing beside my kitchen island. Beau is with him—they must’ve come in through the side door. My siblings and I stopped knocking on each other's doors years ago. It was a trend I started.
I regret that now.
“No,” I grunt, turning back to the onions and asparagus tips I got going. They pop, and I give the skillet a shove. “Maybe.”
“Definitely,” says another voice. “Whatcha makin’?”
“A frittata, asshole.” I cut Beau a glance. “Better question: what happened to you? You look like hell. Insomnia strike again? Or something happen with Annabel?”
“I saw y’all dancing at the bonfire the other night,” Hank says. “Looked awful cozy together.”
My older brother flips his hat off his head and tugs a hand through his hair. Beau was recently diagnosed with CTE, the same degenerative brain disease that Daddy suffered from. One of the unfortunate symptoms is trouble sleeping. He always looks tired. But now he looks strung out too.