“You sure?” she croaks.
“Yeah. I’m sure.” I scrub my hand over my face. “Sleep tight, Kate.”
“Okay,” she mumbles. “You too.”
The call ends, and I puff out my cheeks, dropping my phone into my lap and staring blankly at the ceiling in my apartment.
He’s up there.
Or at least, his penthouse is.
It’s weird to think only a single floor separates us.
What’s even weirder is the fact I could knock on his door if I wanted to, though I doubt he’d answer. Especially after I rejected him earlier.
Actually, scratch that. The bastard doesn’t have a door. He has an electronic key for the elevator leading to his penthouse because he’s too classy for regular doors. It’s one more reminder of how different we are. How stupid it would be to entertain anything more with him.
But the almost kiss?
Fuck me, it would’ve been so good. I know it. I freaking know it.
I could really use Ash or Blake or Kate right now. Especially after a night like tonight.
Sometimes it sucks. Being the last one standing. The last one without a significant other. The last one single and alone. Normally, I don’t mind. It’s not like I want a relationship with anyone, and my friends are happy. So damn happy it’s nauseating most days. But they deserve it. Happiness. They deserve it more than anyone.
And I like being alone. I don’t have to pretend everything is okay when I’m alone. And I sure as shit don’t have to worry about someone stabbing me in the back when I’m by myself. But nights like tonight? Well, it feels sort of melancholy, and it kind of sucks.
Since I’m out of gin, I guess my friends Jim Beam and Jack Daniels will have to comfort me. Pushing myself up from my ugly flower chair in the center of the family room, I head to my kitchen and rummage around in the cabinets. Twisting the cap off with a flick of my fingers, I bring the Jim Beam bottle to my lips and take a long pull.
Warmth spreads down my throat, settles in my chest, and plunges lower. The liquid heat warms my stomach, and I smile against the glass rim, taking another swallow.
I don’t drink often. Okay, that’s sort of a lie. I drink about as much as every other college student, but getting wasted? I save that particular vice for special occasions, and if the familiar buzz humming beneath my skin is anything to go by, apparently, tonight fits the bill.
After another long swallow, I head back to the floral chair and plop onto it, grabbing my laptop and Googling Henry Buchanan against my better judgment. I don’t know why I do it. To torture myself, I guess.
Yup.
He’s as attractive as always.
Strong jaw.
Straight nose.
And the way he punched a guy today? I bite my bottom lip, the memory making me squirm in my seat.
Yeah. It was hot. Like, really hot.
I never thought a guy like Henry, a guy so controlled and stern, could lose it the way he did.
I wonder what it would’ve been like to kiss him. Not like the barely-there brush of his lips at the hotel, but a real kiss. If it would be soft or hard. I bet he’s a terrible kisser—too stiff and forced. Then again, the entire hotel incident was not stiff or forced. No, it was freaking incredible. Like, mind-blowingly good.
Pressing my thighs together, I examine the photo more closely, magnifying his full lips.
He has sexy lips. I wonder what they taste like before some solid oral sex. Like mint? Or Pappy Van Winkle?
I snort and take another pull from the bottle. It ain’t no Pappy’s, but Jim’s never done me wrong.
Pretty sure Jim and Jack are the only two men in my life worth keeping. Well, them and Ben & Jerry. I love me some good ol’ Ben & Jerry.
If only they could turn me on like the man staring back at me from my laptop. I wish I could’ve told him why I didn’t kiss him tonight. Why I turned away. I wish he hadn’t assumed it’s because I’m not interested in kissing him when it couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’d love to kiss him.
To tease my tongue against the seam of his lips. To feel him pressed against me.
My clit pulses, and I almost moan as I take one more shot from the bottle.
Yeah, I’m gonna be fucked tomorrow if I keep this up.
I snort as the thought flutters across my mind.
If only I could get fucked tonight, too.
Keeping my laptop open, I set it on the ground, vowing to purchase a coffee table one of these days. Buchanan’s stone-cold stare pins me in place, and I spread my legs, slipping my hand between my thighs.
“Mmm.” I look at the ceiling, then back at the screen and the eyes shining out at me. Cold. Calculating. Fucking frigid. What I wouldn’t do to see them heat up one more time like they did in the breakroom. I wonder if they would heat up again if he saw what I was doing right now. The button on my jeans pops, and with a quick tug of my zipper, I slip my hands into my thong, playing with my clit while imagining it’s Henry’s fingers instead of my own.
Yeah…I should not be doing this. But since I’m the only one here, I do it anyway. I can’t help myself. I like sex, and this is my only option, so it’ll have to do.
I picture myself riding the elevator to the top floor and asking him to kiss me. To push me up against the wall or to my knees.
I rub my clit a little faster, eliciting another moan to slip past my lips.
“Fuck,” I whimper.
I could always call him and ask for his elevator key. My phone rests on the arm of the chair, and I pick it up, finding Buchanan’s name in my contacts folder. My thumb hovers over the call button as I continue playing with myself, my skin feeling hot and flushed with every pass of my fingers. I wonder if he’d like it. Seeing me like this. Knowing I’m thinking about him. Knowing I could use a solid fuck right now if it didn’t include feelings or expectations.
Don’t be stupid, the voice of reason slips past the comfortable haze from the alcohol, and I set my phone down while continuing my assault with my opposite hand.
It’s a stupid idea, but the thought of making him finish what he started in SeaBird’s breakroom sounds better and better with every slight brush of my fingers.
His fingers.
My head falls back, and I stare at the ceiling once more.
“You gonna fuck me, Henry?” I whimper, closing my eyes and imagining him caging me in with his strong arms, his dress shirt nothing but a rumpled mess on the floor as he pushes his thick cock inside me over and over again. “You gonna make me come?”
My orgasm toys with me, and I spread my legs wider, my thighs pressing into both sides of the ugly ass chair. My breath hitches as I slip my index finger inside of me, pumping it back and forth. But it’s too small. Too dainty. I need Henry. I need his dick. His gruff voice whispering in my ear. The possessive way he says my name.
“Come on, Henry,” I plead under my breath. “Fuck me. Fuck me harder. Ah.” My mouth falls wide as I come on my finger, moaning his name and letting the rush of euphoria wash over me.
Shit, that was good.
I love a solid orgasm. To be fair, who doesn’t? But this one? It might be the best one I’ve had since his head was between my thighs in Creekside.
Slowly, I come back down to Earth, my muscles melting into the lumpy cushion as I pant, “Fuck,” and open my eyes. My phone’s resting on the edge of the armchair. Its screen is shining back at me, along with Henry’s name and the seconds ticking by with a connected call.