by Pam Godwin
Why? If he cared about me, why would he so viciously hurt me?
I wipe at the river of moisture on my cheeks and try to calm my sniveling. God, I’ve made a mess of my life. How did I go from loving one man to loving another? I didn’t even date in between them, didn’t shop around and weigh my options. I just…
Fell madly, sickeningly, desperately in love.
Again.
I love two men, and I lost them both.
A sob rips free, abrading my throat and vibrating my bones. It’s an angry, gutted sound that echoes through the cab. The driver’s probably staring at me, but I don’t care, because goddammit, this fucking hurts. I swore Trace couldn’t hurt me, that I couldn’t be devastated like this again. How could he do this?
I give myself five more minutes of wheezing, shoulder-shaking tears. Then I bottle that shit up and stuff it way down deep. I prefer to let the darkness devour me when no one’s watching, when I’m alone and armed with liquor.
The cab starts and stops with the heavy downtown traffic. Up ahead, the brightly lit bars on Washington Avenue illuminate the street for several blocks. It’s a scene I used to thrive in before Cole—the clubs, the dancing, the men. Maybe I should go back to that. Find myself again.
The thought of dancing and flirting makes my stomach cramp. I just want to go home and drown in a bottle of grain alcohol.
Don’t do it, Danni. You’ve come so far.
Before my brain catches up, I lean forward and find the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I changed my mind. Drop me off up there at 14th and Washington.”
While Trace is spending the night with another woman, he has the satisfaction of knowing I’m not with someone else. Well, fuck that, and fuck being alone. I’m angry enough, fucking revengeful enough to finally put an end to three years of celibacy.
Using the selfie camera on my phone as a mirror, I wipe away the runny smudges of makeup and smear on lip gloss. Then I pay the driver and step out onto the sidewalk crammed with barhoppers.
Everything inside me feels cold and hollow. I’m not in the right mindset for this. I don’t want to be anywhere near here. But the image of Trace and Marlo together collapses my chest and moves my feet toward the entrance of the closest bar.
Adjusting my strapless dress, I curve my mouth into a casual smile. As I enter the bar—one of many I used to frequent—the boom of deep bass rattles my chest. Huddles of men and women turn their eyes in my direction, grinning and staring and making my skin itch with discomfort.
There are four types of men who peruse the club scene for sex. The wingman—the married guy looking to hook up his shy single buddy. The wolf packs—the group of rowdy boys who gain confidence in numbers. The slurring drunk—the guy who imbibed enough liquor before he arrived to numb his sorrows and build his courage. The lone cowboy—the one who comes alone and doesn’t drink because he knows he won’t be leaving alone.
It’s the latter that I seek out as I scan the crowd of singles, club dancers, and trendy loft-apartment dwellers. I’m not halfway around the circular bar before I find him.
Perched on the far side of the bar, a man with short dark hair and a collared shirt follows me with his gaze. A glass of water sits in front of him, a hand resting beside it, his other loosely curled beneath his chin. He’s attractive in a wonderfully average way. There’s no stuffy suit, no visible tattoos or black leather. He’s casual, relaxed, and looks nothing like the two men who broke my heart.
I squeeze through the shoulder-to-shoulder bodies and steal an empty seat at the bar, directly across from him. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, his mouth crooking up at the corner. He’s cuter than I first thought, with a youthful face and bright eyes. I’d put him in his late thirties. Old enough to know what he’s doing.
I order a water and tip the bartender. Then I watch the man who watches me, all the while giving myself a pep talk. When he comes over here—and he will—I need to go through with this. Rip off the chastity belt. Break the dry spell. Move on with my life.
As he finishes his water and stands, I get a glimpse of narrow hips in relaxed denim. Without looking away, he prowls around the bar, sidestepping flocks of laughing people and heading straight for me.
My smile hangs on by a thread as I turn my neck, holding his gaze. He’s not intimidating enough. Not tall enough. Not sexy, cocky, or scowly enough.
He’s not Trace.
My jaw flexes. Trace is with Marlo, touching her, pleasuring her, and giving her a cock I’ve never even seen. I hope it was worth it, because tomorrow, he’ll be looking for another foolish girl to dance on his stage.
The man with the dark hair and firm eye contact slides in beside me. He doesn’t speak, but his smile is warm, welcoming. Definitely interested.
I stretch my spine to lean toward his face, speaking over the music. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Paul Rudd?”
“Yeah.” He huffs. “All the time.”
“Does that annoy you?”
“Depends.” He bends closer, his chest brushing my shoulder and his mouth at my ear. “Do you think Paul Rudd is attractive?”
“Yes.”
“Then it doesn’t annoy me.”
My energy for this is nonexistent. I’m not in the mood to talk or flirt or connect on any level but one. There’s a game that’s supposed to be played here, but if I’m reading him right, he won’t be offended if I forgo a few steps.
“Do you want to take me home?” I ask.
“Yes.” His throat bobs.
“I don’t want an overnight or a call in the morning. I had a really bad day, and I’m just want to forget about it for a couple of hours. Can you handle that?”
“Absolutely.”
“I live about ten minutes away. Can we skip the build-up and—”
“Let’s get out of here.” He grabs my hand, helps me off the stool, and leads me out of the bar.
On the way to his car, we exchange names—his is Jason—talk about the humid weather, and keep it light and impersonal. He owns a Honda Civic fastback, and he drives it fast, his hands relaxed on the wheel and his foot never leaving the gas.
The heated looks he casts in my direction tell me he’s ready to fuck. The hard bulge in his jeans confirms it.
My body’s not warmed up, not even close, and I need it to be. If he fucks as fast as he drives, he’ll be in and out before I orgasm. I experienced too many of those in my club scene days.
With my address programmed into the navigation system, the screen shows nine minutes until we arrive. Nine minutes to make him come. If I can take his edge off, maybe he’ll take his time with me when we get to my house.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I touch him with my hands and lips, stroking him everywhere, quickening his breaths and making him moan. Then I release his erection from his jeans and wrap my lips around him.
He jerks and grunts and tastes like fabric softener. It’s just a blow job, like any other one-night-stand. A job for me and a blow for him, which he does within sixty seconds, shooting his load down my throat.
I straighten in the seat and wipe my mouth, tensing against a sudden wave of nausea. I didn’t expect be aroused by that, but the twisting, coiling sensation in my stomach shouldn’t be there. I need to do this. I need to have sex. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them back, forcing all thoughts of Trace out of my mind.
“Why did you do that?” Jason asks through heavy breaths.
“I’m hoping you’ll return the favor.” My voice is even, despite the bile crawling up my chest.
“I will.” He grips my bare thigh, his fingers slinking beneath the hem of my dress. “Jesus, I came so hard I’m still shaking. That was the best head I’ve ever had.”
“The sex will be even better.” I hope, for my sake.
He pulls into my driveway and twists in the seat, looking out the back window. “A car just parked on your curb. I think it’s a…Maserati?”
No, no, no. My entire body stiffens, and my hands ball into fists. He wouldn’t dare show up at my house. Why would he? He has 2,994,463 women in the state of Missouri to manipulate, use, and fuck.
But as I crane my neck and squint at the street, there he is, Trace Womanizer Savoy, rolling out of his Maserati and heading this way.
In a burst of rage, I explode from Jason’s car and charge toward him. “This is private property, you selfish, narcissistic prick! Get back in your car and go unfuck your fucked-up self!”
“You…” His voice crackles the air as his eyes spear the man behind me. “Leave.”
“I don’t want any trouble.” Jason approaches my side, hands up in a calming gesture. “She wants you to go and—”
“I won’t tell you again.” Trace erases the distance between us, his gait thundering with authority, shoulders squared, and arms relaxed at his sides.
“Why are you doing this?” My hands clench and shake with the need to inflict unholy violence. “Haven’t you hurt me enough?”
He slams to a stop a few feet away, his abs contracting inward, as if I punched him. Then he straightens his spine and hardens his eyes. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t care what you think we need to do. I want you out of my fucking sight!” I turn and storm toward the back door. “Come on, Jason.”
“Look, Danni,” Jason says through an exhale, “I don’t want to get in between whatever this is.”
My teeth crash together as I swing around and gape at him.
Standing on the side of the house, he’s locked in some sort of stare-down with Trace. If this is a battle of egos, Jason’s losing spectacularly. As Trace steps forward, Jason stumbles back, shoulders drooping and gaze diverting to the side.
Christ, I really know how to pick ‘em. But I’m not ready to give up. “Jason, I don’t have any business with that man. Are you coming?”
“I…um…”
He’s not coming, because he already came. In my mouth.
The blow job in the car was stupid, stupid, stupid. He got his release, and now he has zero incentive to stick around. Clearly, I’m not worth getting in between whatever this is.
My neck tenses to the point of pain as I march over and whisper harshly in his ear. “I gave you the best head you’ve ever had. You just lost your chance to find out what else I can do.”
“You what?” Trace’s low, deadly growl pounds a warning in my ears.
I have two seconds to lean back before his fist disperses the air and slams into Jason’s face.
“What the—” Jason falls against the bumper of his car, holding his jaw. “Goddammit!”
I gasp, teetering in my heels. The way Trace struck, so swiftly, with such terrifying composure, it’s like he didn’t move at all. It was just a snap of his arm, out and back, without a grunt or hitch in his breath.
“Why did you do that?” I glare at him with awe and horror.
“He’s still here.” Trace shifts his icy eyes to me. “You sucked his dick?”
“Did Marlo suck your dick?”
“No.”
“You poor thing. Is that why you’re here? Hoping I’ll fall on my knees and let you fuck my face because I’m too naive to clue in on how fucking sick you are?”
Jason’s car door slams shut, and the engine turns over. I don’t blame him for getting the hell out of Crazytown, but the tears well up anyway, searing my sinuses with rejection and humiliation.
As he throws it in reverse, I check my wristlet to make sure I didn’t leave anything in his car. Then he drives away without so much as a glance in my direction.
“Well done, Trace.” I dig out my house key with trembling fingers. “I commend you on your ability to chase another man from my home. That wasn’t predictable at all.” Turning away, I head toward the back door with my middle finger in the air. “Consider this my two-weeks notice.”
I don’t hear footsteps behind me as I unlock the deadbolt, and for a stupid moment, I think he’s still standing where I left him.
Until my scalp tingles. I hurriedly shove the door open. Too late.
A hand covers my mouth, an arm hooks around my waist, and my feet lose purchase with the ground. The wristlet falls to the floor as I kick and swing my elbows, pulse spiking, chest heaving, my screams frantic and muffled.
He hauls me deeper into the dance studio, kicks the door shut, and releases me.
“Why did you—?” He swipes a hand over his mouth, eyes forged with steel. “Why did you put your mouth on him?”
I stagger forward, righting my balance in the heels as fury powers through me.
Arms out and teeth bared, I shove at his chest and keep shoving. “Get out of my house!”
He slips around me and paces to the other side of the dance room.
“Answer the question.” His tone is so still and icy it lifts the hairs on my nape.
“Fuck you!” I yank off a stiletto and chuck at him.
He catches it easily and flings it aside. Then he shrugs out of his suit jacket, tosses it, too, and prowls toward me.
I back up, because holy fuck, he’s angry. The flush in his face, the crazed look in that glare, the hard line of his lips—he’s unraveling, losing his precious control, and I’m backed into a fucking corner.
My breaths quicken, and my muscles go rigid. I don’t think he’ll physically hurt me, but I didn’t think he’d fuck another woman, either. My judgment is total shit.
Pressing my back against a mirror, I remove the other stiletto and hold it like a weapon. “Don’t come any closer.”
His gait doesn’t slow, and in two strides, he’s on me, his hand like a vise around my wrist and his chest hard against mine. “Tell me why you were with that motherfucker.”
Tears are already coursing down my face. I can’t break his hold, can’t escape the strength of his body bearing down on me. All I have is my voice and the devastation attached to it.
“I haven’t had sex in three years.” The bitter words scrape from my throat, seething with self-loathing. “I was finally ready, and you…you…”
He didn’t cheat on me, because we weren’t together. But it feels so much like betrayal my shoulders curl in and my chest collapses beneath a thousand doubts. I should’ve told him how I felt about him, that he made me want to try harder, be stronger, smile more. I should’ve told him I loved him.
My face contorts with unbearable pain, and the shoe falls from my shaking hand. “You stuck your dick in her, and I picked up a guy at a bar. Because that’s what broken people do.”
His nostrils go wide. “If all you want is sex…”
He pulls the knot loose on his tie and yanks it off. Then his hand goes to his belt, tearing at the buckle.
“No!” I shove at his chest, digging my shoulder blades against the mirror behind me. “No, no, no, you’re not—”
He grips my throat and squeezes. “Don’t say that word again, unless you mean it.”
I clutch the shackle of his hand and stare up at him with watery eyes. He’s not cutting my airway. Not really hurting me, either. But I can’t move, and my lips won’t form the word I’m mentally chanting. NoNoNoNoNo…
His belt slides free, and the sound of it dropping against the floor shoots a ripple of warmth through my core. My skin heats. My nipples harden, and my pulse goes wild.
He’s going to fuck me, and I can’t let him. Only an hour ago, he was inside another woman. He doesn’t want me, doesn’t respect me, doesn’t give a shit about me. This is just a power trip to feed his childish, self-serving ego.
I raise my chin and force my gaze to the raging depths of his. When his mouth parts, I drive a knee into his groin. He grunts, and the hand on my throat loosens just enough for me to twist away. But I only make it two steps.
He slams against my back, and we stumble, our hands flying out to brace our collision against the wall. But we’re still moving, his weight pushing down on me, deliberately sending us to the floor.
I land fa
ce down with his body on top of me and his arm around my waist, buffering the fall. I try to pull my knees beneath me to scramble away, but he holds tight to my hips, his free hand clutched around the back of my thigh. Then he yanks up the hem of my mini dress.
Cool air brushes against my bare bottom right before his palm slams down, igniting my skin with fire.
“Fucking…God, fuck!” My arms and legs give out beneath the shocking pain, and my wail echoes through the room. “Why—?”
He spanks me again and again, and the sound of his hand slapping flesh punctuates the ungodly burn. The arm beneath my hips suspends me over his lap, giving him leverage to pommel my ass relentlessly.
I struggle and scream, but after a few seconds, it starts to feel forced, like I’m making myself fight it, deny it, hate it. Only I don’t hate it. With every strike, the pain dissolves into languorous curls of heat. It seeps through my pleasure centers, soothing, stroking, and coaxing my inner muscles into a spasm of need.
In a swift shift of his weight, he rolls on top me, his chest smothering my back and his hand beneath my hips, between my legs, sinking into my soaked pussy.
A gasp fills my lungs, the stretch of his fingers excruciatingly perfect. I don’t want this. I don’t. I can’t…
“Goddamn, you’re soaked.” He grips the ring on my labium and tugs it. “Such a kinky, filthy girl.”
“Not for you.” I kick and writhe, my voice gritty, clawing from the deepest, darkest places inside me. “Never.”
Except my body betrays me, drenching his plunging fingers, clamping down on the invasion, and quivering for release.
I buck my hips and arch my spine, knocking him off long enough to escape on hands and knees. Before I make it to my feet, fingers capture my ankle and flip me over. With a powerful yank, he drags me across the floor on my back and wrenches my thighs apart.
Without panties, I’m wide open and exposed for his greedy gaze. I struggle to get free, but he’s stronger, bigger, his hands impossible to dislodge as he spreads my legs wider.