I slip into my running shoes and walk out the front door. Plump lips-that were delightfully stretched around my cock last night-now form an unhappy pout. You don’t need to be here when I get back.” There’s coffee in the pot and cab money on the front table. She follows as I walk back into the kitchen and put my empty cup in the sink. I don’t have time for games, don’t have any interest in talking about “where this could go.” The minute their eyes get that soft, sentimental-or worse-wounded look, I’m out. As long as they understand sex is the only thing I have to offer, the only thing I want in return, I’m up for a repeat. Some women can handle a nameless one-night stand or a casual hookup. The coach has turned back into a pumpkin and it’s time to collect your glass slipper. Sorry, Cinderella, but the clock struck twelve. ”ĭelicate arms wrap around my waist from behind as small hands fold together over my abs. The cause of the deadly crash is still under investigation. “I-495 was closed yesterday for several hours due to a collision that claimed the life of noted environmental lobbyist Robert McQuaid and his wife. The anchor’s nasal voice seeps out from the open balcony door. Steam wafts from my cup of black coffee as I step out onto the balcony, sipping it slowly, while the silent DC street comes alive around me. My mother always said I’d make a great military man, if it wasn’t for the authority factor. I’m an organized guy I like things a certain way-my way. Not that Stanton was a slob, but he’s a former frat boy. Having the apartment to myself has been fantastic. Stanton’s a hell of a guy, Sofia’s a kick-ass woman, and though they started out as banging buddies only, I could see them going domesticated from a mile away. Stanton, my roommate from law school, moved out last year to live with Sofia-a fellow attorney at my firm. While it brews, I switch on the small flat-screen perched on the counter the early-morning anchors drone on about the latest world horrors, sports stats, and weather. I press the button on the ready coffeemaker-forget dogs a good coffeemaker is man’s real best friend. I walk to my closet for a T-shirt and sweatpants, then silently head out to the kitchen. The sweaty foreplay, the hot, tight fucking, the long legs over my shoulders. The thrill of a new hookup, the verbal gamesmanship-saying just the right thing in just the right way. With a groan, I crack my neck and stretch my arms.īut then I remember the finer details of the evening’s second act. After a satisfying piss, I brush the foul residue from my teeth and splash cold water on my face, slicking back my unruly black hair. I kick back the covers and climb out of bed, still naked, and walk past the head of soft blond hair that peeks out from under the blankets, to the bathroom. and from the strenuous workout after we got home from the bar. I stretch out the sore stiffness in my complaining muscles, caused by lack of sleep. Which explains why, even though it’s Sunday, my eyelids crack open at five a.m. The kind who makes you beg for just a few more minutes of rest before you eventually lay down the law that no one’s allowed out of bed before the sun shows up. I was that kid-you mothers know the type I mean. I’m one of those people with an internal timepiece that wakes me up at the same time every morning, regardless of how tired I am or how late I was up the night before.
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