Dirty Headlines(57)
Fuck the guy who’d gotten her phone number. Fuck him and all the other men in New York.
“I need to quit you,” she mumbled to herself.
I need to own you.
Her body convulsed under me, cresting and tipping deeper into oblivion with every plunge, and I couldn’t help it, I had to do it, I bit the back of her neck like an animal—a savage, a delinquent—and plastered a palm over her throat, bringing her up so we were both standing on our knees as I shot my load inside her perfect, milky-white ass. She let out a scream that echoed inside my mostly empty bedroom as we both climaxed.
A few seconds later, she collapsed on my bed, spineless and thoroughly fucked. I fell next to her, facing the opposite wall. My default strategy was to pussy-block pillow talk and avoid eye contact. It wasn’t personal. I’d done that to Lily, too, back when we were together.
I planked, just turning around to look at her face, when the words left her mouth.
“I should go.”
“I’ll call a cab.” My ego was fucking me harder than I’d fucked her, and that said a lot about its stamina.
“It’s okay. I…”
“I’ll drive you.” I changed my mind.
She hated me spending money on her, but giving her a ride didn’t cost shit. Of course, it did require me to move my car from the garage for the first time in a fucking decade.
She nodded, her face solemn. I’d never really entertained the idea of having a woman stay over. The one and only time I’d done some actual sleeping with a woman in the past year was, oddly, with Jude, at the hotel suite. That time was different, because I knew she didn’t want to go back to wherever she was supposed to be and didn’t take it personally.
Besides, we’d hardly cuddled and whispered sweet nothings in each other’s ears. I’d just crashed, and by the time I woke up with a raging hard-on and a mission in mind to fuck her into a coma, she was already gone.
“You know, I caught my boyfriend cheating on me, too. It made me feel like the world was ending.”
I clasped a lock of her hair and fingered it. Pure gold. I went through the same shit, maybe even ten times worse, seeing as the guy who was fucking my girl was very familiar to me. “Did it?”
She chuckled. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Doesn’t necessarily mean shit. Have you talked to him since?”
“No. Not since that call. I have zero tolerance toward cheaters. Unlike some people I know.”
I deserved that.
“You can stay over.” I ignored her jab. “The daily trip to Brooklyn is bullshit. I can give you the spare key.”
Am I fucking high? What was in that pasta? I only had one shot. Still, I couldn’t find it in myself to take any of those words back.
Judith tucked her yellow hair behind her ears and ran her pearly whites over her lower lip. She seemed to consider it.
It was a relief not to get shut down immediately, since the suggestion in itself was ludicrous.
“That’s not a good idea.” She paused, flipping on her cellphone and checking the time. It was well after eleven. “I will take that ride back home, though, if it’s still on the table.”
“It is.”
“Let me get my dress and wash my face.” She hopped out of the bed, all business, like we were back at work. I watched her perky white ass jiggling in my hallway.
I closed my eyes. A gust of air with the scent of her shampoo and body lotion caressed my nose, and I took a deep, greedy breath.
Not good. Not good. Not good.
Her phone was between the sheets, beeping with new text messages.
Brianna: Thanks for helping me with the filing today! xoxo
Grayson: If I were a Victoria’s Secret model, which one would I be?
Ava: Going to get my nipple pierced this weekend. Wish me luck. Did that cute guy call you yet?
I grabbed it, took out the SIM and split it in half before inserting it back into her phone and smashing the whole thing against the floor.
If that guy wanted Judith, he’d have to look for her the old-fashioned way, among the eight million residents of New York.
Break a leg, buddy.
One day I noticed Dad’s face was no longer the same pale shade as the bathroom wall.
He was going through something called adoptive cell transfer therapy. The treatments were invasive and uncomfortable, but every time he came back home, he smiled bigger than the last time. He was still weak. He was still gray. But he no longer spoke like he was ready to die but too ashamed to let go of life because he knew how much I needed him, and that made my heart soar.
We spent more and more time out of the house—short trips around the block, arm in arm, admiring the festival of colors as New York burst into full-blown summer. Green leaves rustled above our heads and barefoot children ran around the neighborhood pointing hoses at each other and spreading wild laughter like confetti. Flowers unfurled in their sleepy beds on the edges of our neighborhood’s sidewalks.
I still hadn’t told Dad I knew about Célian, and I intended to keep it that way. Even though we were cautiously optimistic, there was a good chance the treatment wouldn’t work. In which case, I would forever blame myself for confronting him about lying to me and trying to save both of us when really, I should’ve been cherishing every moment with him. So I chose to do that instead of picking a fight.