I had her pinned to the wall, her fat tits bouncing, as I pounded into her. She was making some splendid noises, clawing at my back, pulling my hair. Her ass filled my hands—
“Oh, fuck…” I groaned.
I came so hard and quick, my back arched off the bed. I was stunned. It was as though everything inside me had condensed into a fiery point and blown its way out of my cock.
All because I’d been thinking of Xanthe.
Damn, I was shaking. Swallowing hard, I reached out for the towel and wiped myself up. I didn’t even have the strength to crawl my way to the bathroom for a shower. I was so blissed out.
She should be here to cuddle with me, damn it.
It was all her fault that I was in this state in the first place. I needed her arms around me as she told me this was normal, that she felt this way about me, too.
I thought about calling her, but my brain simply shut down, and I slipped into a deep sleep.
The alarm blasted at seven in the morning, waking me. Still on top of the covers, naked from the waist down with a crusty film stretched over my lower abdomen, I dragged myself off the bed and headed to the bathroom for a much-needed shower.
Cleaned up, teeth brushed, hair in place, beard in good shape, and dressed to impress, I headed down to the dining room for breakfast.
The interview was scheduled to take place in one of the conference rooms in the hotel. The convention on Friday would be held here in the grand ballroom. It was why Dreamstone had set everyone up in this place—easy access.
After the mad fantasy of Xanthe last night, I was a little bummed that she hadn’t even sent me a text.
She did have a lot of things to take care of, I reminded myself.
Judging by how jet-lagged I felt, I was sure she was running on fumes herself.
Over a breakfast of waffles, bacon, eggs, and fruit salad, I stared at my phone, willing the woman to send me a message. Maybe I should just text her? I wanted to. I wanted to call her. I needed to hear her voice.
After breakfast, I headed out into the main lobby. Glancing out the front glass façade, I saw Xanthe. My heart swelled at the sight of her, happy to be witnessing that breathtaking smile on her face.
Several things registered at once.
She was standing next to a car that was not a taxi, wearing the same clothes she’d had on yesterday, and that smile was directed at a bald man with glasses.
A stinging hot sensation shot through me. Shocked, I realized…I was jealous. I was ready to go apoplectic on that guy for stealing one of my smiles. I burned with anger at her for sharing that smile with another man.
Fuck this shit!
The bald man held out his arms, and she willingly went into them, giving him a hug that lasted well over five seconds.
My head was about to explode when he took her smiling face in his hands and kissed her forehead.
When he let her go, a long tattooed arm reached out from the front passenger-side window, and Xanthe leaned into the car to embrace whomever it was attached to.
Holy hell, I was on fire inside.
I had no claim on this woman, but I was being eaten up with this maddening feeling. Obviously, she cared very much about that man, and I was flayed raw inside over the fact.
When she turned and walked inside the lobby, she saw me, and her smile for me was blinding. I had to blink against its brightness, almost forgetting my acid-burned heart in the face of it.
“Hey,” she said, coming up to me.
She looked happy and well rested—or maybe something else. I couldn’t think about that. I’d go completely insane.
“Hey,” I replied. “Are you just getting in?”
“Yeah. I went for a visit with some friends after I finished last night. What are you up to?”
“I’ve got the interview in fifteen minutes.” The tone of my voice made the smile on her face dim, and while a part of me wanted to kick myself for it, the mean rush of satisfaction trumped everything else.
“You want to grab some coffee when you’re done?”
“I don’t know when that will be,” I replied.
“Okay. You can let me know then. I’m free this afternoon.”
“Yeah, well, enjoy it,” I said.
The smile vanished completely, and she arched an eyebrow at me. “Maybe I will.”
Knowing I was being purposely rude, Xanthe took off toward the elevators without further ado. Suddenly questioning what I’d found so appealing about her in the first place, I watched her go. She was nothing I normally went for. A shabby hipster dressed like an urchin with way too much hair, she was too smart and too independent for my tastes. Too fucking Xanthe.
Stepping into the elevator, she turned around, and the look on her face was like a kick to the balls.
I had hurt her, and she was surprised I was still there, watching her. She tried to compose her features into that bland mask I had first encountered on the flight from Amsterdam, but it was too late.
I knew why I found her so appealing. Because she was a shabby hipster adorably dressed like an urchin with way too much hair. Because she was too smart, too independent, and just so fucking Xanthe.
My pride demanded I do something about this slight, and it came in the form of the interviewer. Striking from head to toe, Adele Manchester was put together in the sexiest of secretary ensembles. She was certainly interested in me. Throughout the interview, she made it painfully obvious that she found me attractive, taking every opportunity to touch me, laughing at shit I’d said that wasn’t really funny.
I had never been so turned off in my life. My dick had absolutely no inclination to get anywhere near the woman.
After an hour and a half, I walked with Adele to the lobby where she made a fuss over me, clasping my left upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Why don’t you come out with me tonight?” she asked. “A bunch of us are going to make the rounds through some clubs. It’d be a great way for you to network yourself.”
About to decline, I noticed a bushy head of auburn hair blast by us. Xanthe was not close enough to want to draw attention to herself, but she was certainly within earshot.
“I’d love to,” popped out of my mouth loud enough to make sure the fly-by bush heard.
I hate myself.
Xanthe breezed out of the lobby without a backward glance and onto the sidewalk, hanging a left and disappearing from view.
“Great! I’ll pick you up here at nine then?”
“Sure,” I replied, already forgetting the woman. My mind was chasing Xanthe down the street, begging her to forgive me once more for being an asshole.
The rest of the day, I spent up in my room reading Haunted Bonds and watching TV. Elaine H. Ford had ruined porn for me, so I didn’t bother with that.
Xanthe admired Elaine, and I had grudgingly begun to admire her, too. It was easy to see why Xanthe did. Elaine was a mad literary genius, making me love a story in a genre that had held absolutely no appeal to me whatsoever.
From time to time, I’d stare at my phone, hoping with my whole heart that Xanthe would call and tell me I was a jerk. Pride wouldn’t let me call her.
Stalking social media, I found Xanthe’s Facebook page, discovering that she had set the settings so that no one but her friends could see anything. I went through her Friends list and stalked through their photos of her.
Ricki Conklin, I knew by reputation. A brilliant tattooist in Amsterdam, his page had mostly pictures of his work and a small handful of his wife, Jaime, with their best friend, Xanthe. The love and adoration present between the three of them was enlightening. Seeing that she had friends of quality spoke so much of her character.