When I arch a brow, totally lost, Hunter chuckles. “Oh, god, that’s even hotter because I know I was the first guy to make you come so hard you…”
He leaves the sentence hanging, appearing to want to beat his chest in pride. “I what?” I ask, as I know this was different. I felt like I was on the cusp of dying.
He shakes his head, that look of bewilderment assailing him once more. “Mary Mitts…you’re a squirter. I’m coated in your flavor and I want more. So much more.”
“A what?”
Question time is over, because when Hunter slides down my body and opens my legs once more, I know this lesson is one better shown.
The Unicorn
Three days later
Just call me Judas, because I must have killed Jesus Christ in my past life. That’s the only explanation to why this current clusterfuck is happening to me.
Three days ago, something amazing happened, probably the best fucking thing that’s happened in my entire life. Mary came over, intent on ripping me a new one. I had no clue that me fearing for my life would result in me coming in my pants like a tween, but I’d happily renounce my manhood if it meant Mary squirted all over my face again and again.
Yes, she’s a squirter, and she showered me with her musk, which I want to bottle and place on my pillow like a little mint. She is like a unicorn amongst hopeful, horny men, longing for that one day they’ll catch a glimpse of this magical creature. But I didn’t just take a peek, no, I was riding that unicorn, or rather, she was riding me.
I was like a starved beast, feasting on her until we both fell into a satisfied slumber, and we didn’t even have sex. She didn’t even touch my cock, and I felt like I’d been screwed six ways to Sunday. I slept like a baby, so ready to have morning sex with this anomaly, but when I woke, she was gone.
Poof! Gone into thin air.
Maybe I’d dreamt it, but her scent still lingered on my tongue, so I knew it really happened, but where was she? I waited, thinking maybe she’d gone out to get coffee. But an hour later, it was fairly obvious that unless she was getting coffee in Jamaica, she wasn’t coming back.
Not wanting to crowd her, I showered and got ready for work. I half expected her to be at the office, tearing up my carpet while I teared at hers. But she wasn’t. When AM became PM and I was looking at my phone like the antichrist, I knew Mary had done a me—she fucked and flew.
I felt so…dirty, yeah, I see the irony, but that soon turned into detachment. Whatever, we had a good time. I don’t know what I expected to happen. With that as my marching tune, I forgot about Mary and her magical vagina and focused on not focusing on her.
Day two I was fucking jacked up and jacked off. The least she could do was call. What if I’d suffered a concussion from her riding my face like a bull? But the radio silence was a swift kick to the balls, because I knew she wasn’t calling.
Mid-afternoon, I wondered if maybe I should call the hospitals. Maybe she was hurt? Maybe she was running with scissors? Or maybe she was dehydrated from all the water loss? I don’t know how many times I picked up my phone, the blank screen staring at me, a blatant reminder of what a pussy I was being.
I asked Keira to hide my phone in a place I’d never look, which she did. Twenty minutes later, I was begging she give it back. Of course there was a price to pay. She made me promise to take her out for dinner. At that stage, I would have agreed to sell her my soul. When she retrieved the cell from my jacket pocket, I knew it was time to fuck the day off with a bottle of whiskey and porn.
I was ready to wank Mary from my system, focusing on the busty blonde bouncing on my screen, but my dick went into hiding. I literally had to make sure it was still there. Maybe it was the porn. But after twenty-five different DVDs, one thing became apparent—my cock only comes out to play for Mary.
Done with the spectacle, I gave in and I called her. This was a first. When it went to voicemail, her message did what twenty-five pornos couldn’t—I got hard.
Hi, you’ve called Mary. Sorry I missed your call, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Oh, but if you’re a blond-haired asshole, whose named starts with Hunt and ends in screw you, lose this number. Beep.
I had to dial again in case I was hearing things, but nope, it was clear as day. I had managed to piss Mary off once again, but this time, it appeared she wasn’t giving me a second chance to show her just how sorry I was.
I racked my brain, attempting to figure out what the fuck I did to offend her. We passed out well spent on the sofa, so unless I offended her somehow in my sleep, she’s gone completely crazy. And what better person to talk about this insanity to than the one and only Dr. Dix.
“Hello, Susanna, you look positively ravishing. Is that a new sweater?” I say, waltzing into Dixon’s office. His loyal receptionist and forever bodyguard peers up at me from behind her desk. There is no sweet talking her, however.
“Dr. Mathews is currently with a patient, Mr. O’Shea. Can I take a message?” She peers at me over the top of her glasses, ready to chase me from the building if she sniffs a hint of corruption.
“I’ll wait,” I reply, placing my forearms along the counter and smiling sweetly. She purses her lips, but continues typing.
Looking at my watch, I see that it’s almost 12 p.m. Surely, he’s almost done. Wondering who is listening to the pearls of wisdom, I stand taller and strain my neck to look at Susanna’s computer. Not even making eye contact, she’s onto me and clears her throat.
If I wasn’t desperate, I wouldn’t be here, but I need someone to tell me what the fuck to do. Drumming my fingers on the counter, I whistle the tune to Mission Impossible while questioning if it’s too early for scotch.
I called in sick today because I literally feel like my stomach is eating itself and I can’t spend another day in limbo. “How long…”
Susanna holds up her finger, a silent warning that she’ll have no problems mounting my head as a trophy to these walls.
Dixon’s voice booms through the foyer. “I’ll see you next week, Ms. Tully.”
“Thank you so much, Dr. Mathews. I feel so much better.”
When I see just who Ms. Tully is, I know I got into the wrong business. Ms. Tully looks like Miss Universe. When she locks eyes with me, she rewards me with a wink. My shattered ego could do with the boost, so I lean on my cupped palm and give her a killer smile.
Dixon is behind her, slashing at his neck, but he can shove it. “Hello.” Ms. Tully batts her eyelashes.
My cock barely rises from its perpetual slumber. But even if it decided to stop wearing black and emerge from this state of mourning, Dixon, as usual, is the forever cockblocker. “Mr. O’Shea, it’s so wonderful you could make it.” It is? “The itchiness gone then? What about the rash?” The world has fucking lost its mind. “I told you chlamydia doesn’t have to be a crippling illness. The gonorrhoea however…” and he makes a pained face, while Susanna covers her mouth to stifle her laugh.
Ms. Tully’s smirk transforms to a disgusted frown as she makes a beeline for the door, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake.
“Nice, asshole,” I say, while Dixon grins.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?” As he takes a closer look at me, he rubs over his chin before sighing. Am I that obvious? “Ms. Vale, cancel lunch.” It appears so.
He doesn’t wait for me to speak, but instead turns on his heel and walks into his office. I follow. Once I step foot inside, I can’t help but laugh. Mary was so right. Such an old man’s cave. The thought of her leaves me breathless and I idly rub over my aching chest.
“What the fuck happened now?” he asks, sitting on the edge of his desk, folding his arms.
“Jesus Christ. I hope that’s not your lead in, ’cause if it is, I have no idea how you’re still in business.”
Dix rolls his eyes while I slump onto the leather sofa. “Hunt, whatever you want to say, just say it. You honestly cannot shock me anymore.”
<
br /> Time to test that theory.
Casually crossing an ankle over my knee, I lean back and place my arm along the top of the sofa. “So, I have this friend…” Dixon pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. I ignore him. “Let’s call him…Hugh. Well, he had the most amazing thing happen to him a few nights ago. A woman named…Shortcake, she and Hugh have recently put their differences aside and played nice…but that’s the problem…they played too nice…” I wonder just how much I should share. Fuck it. He’s getting the uncut version.
“Played?” Dixon asks, cocking a brow.
I nod. “Yes. Hugh wore Shortcake out, and before he knew it, Shortcake wanted to…bake a cake, because she was ravenous. Hugh hand-picked Shortcake’s…strawberries. Actually, they were more like melons.” I lick my lips when remembering those pillows of perfection, but I need to focus. “But anyway, Shortcake begged Hugh to whip her cream and he did, twice, and before Hugh knew it, Shortcake was squirting cream all over his face. Hugh then whipped his own cream, which he spilled in his pants.” Dixon looks stupefied, but I continue. “They both fell asleep after their hunger was quenched, but when Hugh woke, Shortcake was gone. He didn’t think much of it, but it’s now three days later, and Hugh is wondering what happened, because he’s become addicted to Shortcake’s cream cake and is pretty certain he will slip into a hypoglycemic state if he doesn’t have another taste.”
Smirking, I breezed through that. Dixon has no idea this is me.
He blinks once, before opening his mouth and saluting his finger, but changes his mind at the last minute and seals his lips. I wonder if the hypoglycemic line was too much.
He peers up at the ceiling and takes three deep breaths. “You…” He raises his pointer, needing a minute. “You fucked Mary?” he gasps after a long pause.
“What?” I fake innocence, sitting forward, mouth agape. “Me? This is about my friend, Hugh.”
But Dixon doesn’t buy it and scratches over his brow. “You don’t even have a friend named Hugh! And whenever you use a food-inspired analogy, I get hives, especially when they are about fucking my fiancée’s best friend!”
I raise my eyes upward. “Calm down, you drama queen. I didn’t fuck anybody. Neither did Hugh. And Mary? I’m pretty sure I said her name was Shortcake. Were you even listening to me?”
“Then what the fuck happened? Hugh”—he uses air quotations to humor me—“just what? Whipped Shortcake’s batter and now she’s done a runner?”
I flick the side of my nose, before pointing my finger. “Now you’re catching up. Yes, that’s exactly what happened. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why has Shortcake gone underground?” I ask without missing a beat.
“Because Shortcake probably realized what an utter idiot Hugh is and wishes she skipped dessert!” Dixon replies, pushing off his desk, dumbfounded.
My stomach sinks and I rub my chin. “Hugh doesn’t, and that makes him crazy, right?” The mood settles as Dixon can read my sincere confusion.
He walks over to where I sit and sighs. “Hugh needs to tell Shortcake how he feels. Just because they ate cake together doesn’t mean everything is going to be sweet.”
He’s right. The ache returns. “She makes Hugh physically ill. He wants to vomit whenever she’s three feet away.”
Dixon smirks. He’s so enjoying this. “That’s called love, my friend.”
I gag on air and thump on my chest to dislodge the obstruction. “No, it’s called losing one’s mind. The fighting Hugh can handle. He can’t handle the…” I pause, probing for the right word. “The constant sea sickness he feels.”
“They’re called butterflies,” Dixon says, filling in the blanks, while I wonder if maybe he needs a nap.
I recoil, twisting my lips. “What the fuck is that? Hugh is pretty sure it’s indigestion.”
He bursts out laughing, wiping the corner of his eyes. “Hugh is a fucking moron.”
Yes, yes he is.
No closer to figuring this out, I ask, “So, Shortcake is MIA because…” I gesture with my hands that Dix is to elaborate.
“Because maybe she got scared. Maybe she needs time to clear her head.”
I was hoping he’d say that, but her voice message—what a clear fuck you. “What should he do?”
Dixon sits down on the couch and drops his linked fingers between his splayed legs. “He should call her.” Just as I’m about to rebuke, he persists. “If he already has and she’s made it clear she’s angry at him and he has no idea why, then he needs to grow a pair and talk to her face to face.”
I cringe. That sounds like an awful idea. “What if he’s scared she’ll rearrange his face with a cheese grater?”
“Then he needs to get over it, man the fuck up, and fight for what he wants. The fact she allowed him anywhere near her…cake”—I grin. This analogy is fucking genius—“in the first place means she feels something for him too.”
My heart kicks against my ribcage. “Really?”
Dixon nodding is like witnessing a blind man regaining his sight. “Yes, really. From what I know about Shortcake, she doesn’t take too lightly to having dessert with just anyone. He just needs to talk to her. Over coffee, that’s it. Sex tends to complicate things because it’s not what most people have difficulties with. It’s the talking about one’s feelings which leave us tongue-tied.”
Mulling over his sermon, I realize that he’s right. Hugh and Shortcake had no problem getting down and dirty, but Mary and Hunter…Hunter and Mary, could we really have a civil conversation about what happened?
I suppose there is only one way to find out. “Gee, you sure know a lot.”
Dixon smiles, before slapping the back of my head. I grunt on impact. So much for the heart to heart. “It’s my job. Now go. Hugh needs to sort out his shit.” He’s right. No wonder people pay a small fortune to spend an hour with this guru of love.
Standing, I have a new lease on life. I will find Mary and demand she talk to me, because we need to get to the bottom of this once and for all. “Hugh is indebted to you. He will make sure you don’t get your balls covered in honey, and tied to a pole naked, in Tijuana, at your bachelor party.”
Dix stands with a smirk, pointing to the door. “And I will make sure Shortcake’s best friend doesn’t find out about this until Hugh finds his balls.”
“Hugh thanks you.” I bow in gratitude.
My pants vibrate, and I wonder if my cock has finally stopped being a wimp. But when the vibration continues, I know it’s my phone. Yanking it from my jeans pocket, I answer without seeing who the caller is.
“Hello?” I’m breathless in anticipation, while Dixon looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles.
“Hi, Hunter.” My body deflates. Dix’s eyes widen, but I shake my head.
“Oh, hey Keira.” His hopeful mask is replaced with war paint and he walks over to his desk, uninterested.
“Sorry to call you, I know you’re sick…” I can hear her sincerity, so I wonder what’s wrong.
“It’s fine. What’s up?”
A heavy sigh leaves her. This can’t be good. “I think you need to come into the office.”
“Why?”
“Um, because Mary is here,” she whispers, appearing to fear for her life.
“Mary?” I bellow, a little louder than intended. Dixon’s interest is now totally piqued and he sprints over, gesturing that I’m to put Keira on speaker. I do.
“Yes, she arrived about ten minutes ago. She’s…I just think you need to come here. And soon.”
Dixon runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks inflated. He looks about as happy as a penguin in a microwave. “Go,” he mouths, while I wonder if he secretly hates me and wishes me dead. Whatever Mary is doing can’t be good.
“Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen.” I have no idea what’s going on, but the fact Mary is at my work is good, right?
I look at Dixon for any last words. The ones he gives me pretty much sum up my
life. “Sometimes, bad things happen to good people, but in your case…it’s karma.”
I’ve prepared myself for every possible scenario.
I have no idea what I’m walking into, but from Keira’s terrified tone, I’m not too sure if I’ll end this day with all my limbs attached. The elevator doors part and I pop my head out, afraid Mary is waiting in the wings, ready to throat punch me and kick me in the balls.
The coast is clear, so I step out and make my way to my office. It feels like I’m walking a death march, but that end result seems like an easy way out, because when I turn the corner and see Keira outside my door, biting her nails, I know this will end in tears.
“Keira?” I whisper, not wanting to alert Mary that I’m here.
She turns swiftly, her eyes wide and filled with terror. “Oh, thank god. I tried to keep her out, but she threatened to cut off my hair.” On instinct, she draws her blonde locks over her shoulder and twirls the strands into her fist.
“You did the right thing.” Something shatters against the wall, followed by a string of profanity. “Go back to your office. This isn’t going to be pretty.” When she hesitates, I press. “Believe me, Keira, you being here will just make things worse.”
She finally nods. “If you need me, you know where I am.” I appreciate the gesture, but if I go anywhere near her, I have a sneaking suspicion Mary will castrate me and make good on her promise to scalp Keira. She brushes my upper arm before leaving me alone with Huffy the Dragon.
I take a deep breath, say a prayer, and open my office door. The moment I do, a book almost connects with my head. A few inches to the left, and I’d be blind in my right eye. “What in the actual living hell is the matter with you?” I roar, using the door as a shield when Mary reaches for a paperweight off my semi-cleared desk.
One good thing about her tirade is that my desk has finally seen daylight, and who would have thought, it’s black. I could have sworn it was brown.
The Hunt - Monica James Page 14