Diary of a Bad Boy(5)

I don’t want to write at all, but guess who has “homework”? This sorry motherfucker. So here I am, a glass of whiskey in my right hand and completely fucking nude.

Yup, my dick is peering up at you, asking what the hell I’m doing writing to some pansy-ass named Melvin instead of jacking off to the pictures of the girl on the phone.

Wide blue eyes, naturally platinum-blonde hair, big-ass tits, she’s a goddamn wet dream. And that voice of hers? A hint of southern charm and sweet molasses dripping from her plump lips.

Those lips would look amazing wrapped around my cock, that’s for damn sure.

But I have morals—not many, but I have ’em—and whacking my cock to a selfie isn’t necessarily a low moment I want to log away as a memory. So, I turned to you, Melvin, and just like that, my erection deflated like a fizzled-out balloon animal.

Poof.

Gone.

Thanks, pal.

Roark





ROARK





“Christ.” I roll out of bed, my head still pounding, my mouth dry, and my dick hard as a rock. I press my palm to my eye to wipe the sleep away when a sharp pain ricochets through my head. “Ah hell,” I mutter, as I recall last night’s events.

Hot dogs before clubbing. That’s all I wanted—a hot dog with ketchup—and I wound up rolling around in a puddle of New York City scum with a blue faux-fur-covered dick trying to beat the shit out of me. Too bad for him, I’m numb to any kind of punch at this point. Well, numb until the next morning.

But I welcome the pain. It makes me feel like I’m alive at least.

Standing from my bed, I stretch my hands over my head. Light from the expanse of windows filters into my room, lighting the path to my bathroom.

As I pass the mirror, I glance at my reflection and wince. Deep shades of purple and blue circle my eye and a red abrasion sits just below it. The douche got in a good hit with a ring on his finger. I’ll give him that.

I lean against the wall in front of the toilet and take a long piss, my head resting against my arm for support from the incessant pounding. Flushing, I turn toward the bottle on the counter and bring the cool glass to my lips, taking a long swig of whiskey. No better way to start the morning than with a shot of pure Irish blood right down my throat.

The burn doesn’t even hit me anymore.

I start my shower and press against the bathroom counter, the cold surface cutting over my bare ass, taking some of my sleepiness away.

I take one more swig and then set the bottle on the counter before hopping in the shower. The warm water hits me, soothing my aching bones that were roughed up last night. By no means was the other guy the winner of our brawl, but I’ll admit, I underestimated him. He was tougher than I thought and a lot quicker on his feet. It’s why my ribs are sore this morning. He got in a few blows before my drunk ass was able to spring to my feet and defend myself again.

Leaning against the tile, I soap up one hand and drift it over my body to soap up the contours and divots in my abs, then run it gingerly across my ribs and move on to my pecs. I flick each nipple, because why the hell not, and then I run my hand to my dick where I tug on the hardened length.

Fuck that feels good.

I press my forearm against the tile of the shower, letting the water roll down my back as I glide my hand up and down my cock, seeking the release I wasn’t granted last night. I was supposed to meet up with Candace at the club, but since I had a small detour, I was out of commission—not by my choosing. I’m sure Candace wouldn’t have made out with my goddamn bloody face. I don’t have very high standards when it comes to fucking, so taking her wouldn’t have been an issue on my end, but I spared her the encounter. Fuck. I wonder if Miss Brooklyn Hottie received a text or two on my phone last night. The thought makes me laugh. And now I have Sutton on my mind. Gorgeous, perky-tits Sutton.

Pumping harder, I roll my hand over the head of my cock. My breathing starts to pick up as blood pools to the center of my body. I spread my feet a little more and run my hand down to the root where I grip my balls for a few seconds and then drag my hand back up, this time, squeezing harder.

Fuck.

Me.

My hand moves faster now, my erratic breaths aching my bruised ribs. Just a few more strokes.

I groan, my grip growing impossibly tight as my balls seize and I lean forward to release onto the tile of the shower floor.

Christ. I needed that.

I finish washing myself, scrubbing my hair and leaving it a wild mess as I hop out of the shower and turn on the heat lamp above me before wrapping my towel around my body. The worst part about taking a shower is being fucking cold when you get out. When I made my first million, the first thing I did was install the heat lamp. It cost me a few hundred dollars, but in that moment, I knew I’d made it in life. All the rich fucks had heat lamps in their bathrooms. Me being one of them now.

A buzzing sounds off in my bedroom, but I ignore it as I take one more swig of whiskey to dull the aching pain coursing through my bones and then brush my teeth. Mint and whiskey, lucky I don’t mind the combination.

The elevator to my penthouse dings. I should be alarmed, but I’m surprised I got a shower in before he showed up. He’s usually earlier than this.

“Roark,” Rath, one of my best friends, calls out. “Where are you?”

“Bathroom,” I shout over a mouthful of toothpaste.