Down and Out(4)

Reaching up, I slip my hand inside her insanely low-cut top. She’s not wearing a bra, but then again, why would she be? It’s not like they bounce or jiggle.
People can see me playing with her tit, but I don’t care. Jamie doesn’t either. Hell, I could probably take her right here on this couch and she wouldn’t bat an eye. Knowing her, she’d get off on the attention.
My hand squeezes the firm mound and my thumb runs across her nipple. Her tits might feel like cantaloupe halves stuck under her skin, but damn it if they don’t look pretty.
I sigh, letting my hand fall back. I’ve still got nothin’ doin’ in my pants.
I may be a lot of things, but a quitter isn’t one of them.
Shifting her off me, I stand, ignoring the way the room tilts. “Let’s go.”
Her already indecently short skirt is hiked up around her as she climbs up. She doesn’t stop to pull it back down as she slips her perfectly manicured hand in mine and tugs me through the crowd.
When we’re upstairs, she pulls me into an empty bedroom and I let her push me on the bed. I lift my head, looking around the unfamiliar room in the house I don’t know, and see the partially open door. “You’re not gonna close that?”
She pulls her slinky black top over her head, exposing what God and Dr. Fischer gave her as she puts on her best “do me” face. “I think it’d be hot if someone catches us.” Mischief glints in her eyes as she climbs on the bed and crawls toward me.
My shoulders move in a half-hearted shrug. If she doesn’t care about people watching us screw, then why should I? My head falls back against the bed and I close my eyes as her hands undo my belt buckle.
In the darkness of my mind, I pretend like it’s someone else’s hands touching me, someone else’s mouth wrapped around my cock, and I start to get hard. Part of me realizes how messed up this is, and the other part doesn’t care. A mouth is a mouth, right? As long as it belongs to a female over the age of eighteen, it shouldn’t matter.
Then why am I not into this?
The room tilts and my head spins. I bring my hands up and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes as the wet slopping sound of Jamie’s mouth fills the silence.
I can’t do this.
Sitting up, I pop myself out of her mouth. She wipes spit off her chin and stares at me in confusion. “I, uh, don’t have a condom,” I say.
She grins and pushes back on my shoulders till I’m lying down again. Hovering over me, she straddles my lap. My cock is nestled under her heat and I can feel everything through the flimsy fabric of her thong.
“That’s okay,” she says, bending down to kiss me. Her chest is hard against mine as her tongue pushes into my mouth. I’ve been drinking beer all night and I’m sure I taste like ass, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she just doesn’t care. “You can just pull out.”
Uh, no. Out of all the faceless women I’ve been with, no matter how drunk or how high, I’ve never gone bareback, not once, not even for a game of “just the tip.” And I’m sure as shit not about to start with Jamie, of all people.
Rolling her hips against me, she says, “Or you can stick it in my ass.”
See? Very unladylike.
“I’ll go downstairs and find us one.” I move her away from me and roll off the bed, swaying as my vision blurs, but I manage to remain upright.
Sam Adams: 0, Declan: 1
“Are you sure—”
I close the door behind me before she can finish, leaving her half-naked on the bed. Somehow, I’m able to put one foot in front of the other without faceplanting in the hallway.
“Hey.” A girl comes up next to me and touches my arm. “You’re Declan Whitmore, right? I saw you fight Harding last month. You were . . . really good.” She’s twirling her hair around her finger and smiling up at me with a look I know all too well. And unless her identical twin’s hitting on me too, then I’m seeing double now.
I think it’s safe to say I’m tore up from the floor up.
She’s cute . . . (I squint, trying to get a clear look at her face.) I think.
I place my hand on the wall next to her head. “You want to go someplace quiet and talk?”
She bites her lip and nods, so I grab her hand and open the door beside her. Once we’re inside, I lock it and pull out the condom I’ve had in my pocket the whole time.






This has to work. I am so screwed if this doesn’t work.
I cross the street and pull open the gym’s doors, glancing at the “Help Wanted” sign in the window. The stench of stale sweat hits me as I look around the tiny lobby, eyeing the dozens of black-and-white pictures lining the wood-paneled walls. There are a few newspaper clippings among the pictures, all of some boxer from fifty years ago. My sneakers squeak on the yellowing linoleum as I lean in to scan an article, but movement down the narrow hallway to my right catches my eye. 
I step forward, out of the little sunlight pouring through the dingy front windows of Whitmore & Son Gymnasium, and into the shadows of the corridor. Shuffling echoes off the walls, followed by the occasional and unmistakable sound of weights.
The gym opens up, revealing a huge room with a boxing ring in the middle. The shuffling’s from the two guys sparring in the ring. They’re quick—throwing lightning-fast hits and dodging them just as easily. They glisten under the lights, the sweat covering them highlighting every muscle as it flexes.
The guy facing me slows, nodding his head toward me as he glances at his opponent.