But damn if I am heading back to my room. I do not need her. I am not dependent on her. No way am I going to allow her to see how vulnerable I am with her.
Which means I’m left me with balls the size of all the number one hits of The Beatles put together… Fuck, had I thought that? The woman’s affliction for those losers is getting to me.
I have to fuck her out of my system… Or at least, jerk her out, to get relief.
So, I’d walked into the men’s restroom and locked the door behind me. I blow out a breath, then scan my reflection in the mirror—dilated pupils, irregular breathing, a sheen of sweat dampening my brow... Fuck. What a dumb idea it had been to think I could get through this unscathed. I’d thought I was in control… How wrong I had been. I’d thought I could keep her close, so I could steer the proceedings, slow the pace when needed.
Fuck, fucking fuck. I squeeze my cock and pain grips my groin. I massage myself once again. The blood thrums through my veins and my pulse rate ratchets up. The scent of her—sweet and sexy, warm and giving, and opening to me—clings to my nostrils, percolates into my skin, winds its way down to coil in my groin. My thighs spasm and my balls draw up. Her green eyes—beseeching, half-drugged with lust, stormy with anger. The sound of wet flesh closing around my fingers. Her mouth around my dick, sucking on me, dragging her teeth up the underside of my swollen shaft. Her slickness, her little moans, her head thrown back as she’d verged on the edge of climax.
The tension in my belly twists in on itself. I squeeze the base of my cock harder. Fuck me, but I am going to come, I am going to—
A banging on the door filters into my consciousness. I ignore it, focus on my own pleasure—how I am going to thrust forward into her sweet cunt, rip into her melting pussy and— "Saint, open up this second, you asshole."
I whip my head around, stare at the closed door, "Fuck off."
"If you don’t open it, I am going to kick this door down."
"It’s an antique door, you tosser." Not that I fucking care about the money. I could replace it, of course, but damn, if I don’t have a soft spot for history and heritage…and all that emo shit… And beautiful women who hurt from the inside out, who pretend to be strong when they are already broken. Since when had I given in to the urge to collect wounded things to my collection?
There’s another bang and the entire door frame shudders. "I swear, I’ll take it out of your share of the profits, wanker."
"You’re the wanker, beating yourself in there into your hand like a pathetic pussy."
"Bitch," I swear aloud.
"I heard that, you tosser."
Fucking Weston. I tuck my erect dick inside my pants and zip myself up. Then stalk over to the door and fling it open.
Weston brushes past me and glides inside, looking for all the world like he’s stepped out of a fucking photo shoot. "Jesus, do you have to deck yourself out like a peacock every time you step out?"
He leans a hip against one of the basin’s, "Unlike you," he glances down pointedly at my worn-in boots, "I prefer to be prepared."
"I happen to have interesting taste."
"Including in women?"
"Don’t talk about her," I snarl.
He smirks, "That why you’re diddling yourself in secret?"
The back of my neck heats, "I wasn’t." Fucking fuck, now I sound—what?—about fifteen? When I had to beat myself off to sleep most nights.
Weston chuckles, then sniffs the air, "I don’t know... Smells like sex in here...the self-gratifying kind, I mean." He makes a rude gesture with his hand. "Didn’t know you had to resort to that to get some these days."
I glower at him, "I told you I wasn’t."
"So why did you lock the door?"
"Because…" I pull myself up to my full height, "the last I checked, I own this hotel."
"Which you’re going to run into the ground by the looks of it," a new voice sounds. I groan. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Arpad who’s walked in.
"The hell are you doing here?"
Arpad saunters in, "Weston seemed to think he’d need back-up."
"And that’s you?" I smirk.
"No, that’s us," Damian moseys in.
I scowl. "Why’d you have to bring him along?"
I jerk my chin toward Edward, who strolls in. He kicks the door shut, then leans his shoulder against him.
"What?" I take in their faces, then fold my arms over my chest. "Whatever it is, the answer is ‘no.’"
"I didn’t ask a question," Arpad grins. "Any of you hear a question?"
The others chime in.
"Nope."
"Nah."
"Naw."
I tap the toes of my boot on the ground. "Well? Say your piece, you dickheads. I have an appointment to keep."
"Correction, you ran out of the earlier meeting before we could discuss FOK investments, so we decided to move the venue," Edward says.
"To a restroom... And here I thought this was an intervention."
"Nothing like a public toilet to remind us of the kind of shit we've faced since the fuckers changed our lives in the incident and…" Weston stalks over to one of the urinals, "we’re not done with the intervention." He lowers his zipper, then the tinkle of piss hitting porcelain fills the room.
"Jesus Fucking Christ," I growl.
"Don’t take the Lord’s name in conjunction with a profanity," Edward admonishes.
"Sorry, Father. How many Hail Mary’s should I say to repent?"
"None, this time," Edward looks down his nose at me, "but you can tell us what’s got you all aflutter."
"Aflutter?" I choke.
Damian laughs. The others snicker.
Weston flushes the urinal, then walks over to wash his hands, "How else do you explain your running out on us earlier,
