Crass? Sure.
Dirty in all the right ways? Abso-fucking-lutely.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Lea,” he growled, looking down at me. His hand landed at the base of my skull, gathering all the hair there into a fist, watching me intensely as I started sucking him fast, unrelenting, not giving him a second to have his orgasm ebb.
His ragged breathing, his hard exhales, his moments of holding his breath completely, and his occasional grunts spurred me on, letting me focus past the discomfort in my jaw and neck. “Lea, fuck, if you don’t want…” he started to warn.
But I did want.
So I moved faster, twisting my head as I sucked him until his fist pulled my hair hard enough for me to see white as he cursed out my name and I tasted his release flood my mouth.
I released him a minute later, pulling his boxers back into place and moving up to straddle him again, feeling just a bit victorious.
“Well you aren’t a liar.”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“You give better than you get. Fuck if you don’t give better than I’ve ever gotten.” I smiled, huffing onto my fingers then rubbing them against my shoulder, making him chuckle. “Why the fuck have you been fighting this so hard?”
I sighed, sliding off his lap and taking my feet. I reached down and worked my zip and button back into place, fetched my bra and shirt, then slipped into them. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh, fuck off with that. There’s nothing complicated about wanting someone.”
Except when you have a track record of wanting the wrong kinds of guys who steal months or years of your life with their shit.
The problem was, I didn’t trust myself anymore. I didn’t believe I had what it took to make the right decision about who I should and shouldn’t avoid. I think when you’ve made the wrong decision more than a handful of times, it’s hard to believe you are even capable of making the right one, in telling the decent guys from the ones who will fuck you over.
I was kind of at the point where I figured if I wanted someone, then that was all the proof I needed that he was bad for me.
Such was my track record.
I’d never liked a nice guy.
I’d never fallen for someone who worshipped the ground I walked on.
Hell, if they did that shit, I would probably forget they were all down there worshipping the ground and accidentally trample them.
I would chew up and spit out a guy like that.
To put up with my personality, I needed someone with some spirit, with a willingness to call me on my bullshit. And guys like that, well, they were usually your typical alpha male types: bikers, dealers, hired muscle, mob guys, gang members. Maybe you could throw in your occasional mechanic, construction worker, or ex-military guy too. I’d know. I had dated them all.
“Lea…” Shane called and I caught myself staring at one of the shelves stacked with paper and toner, lost in my own thoughts.
“What?” I asked, hearing a mix of tiredness and defeat in my tone. If I wasn’t mistaken, he picked up on it too.
He watched me for a moment with those piercing blue eyes of his before nodding, standing, and zipping up. “Alright. I’ll drop it,” he said, brushing past me, his fingers touching my hip for the barest of seconds and it felt way too good for just a chaste contact, as he made his way to the door. “But I am holding you to Saturday night. I’d tell you to put on something sexy, but I think you could inspire a restaurant full of hard-ons by showing up in a fucking sack. So wear whatever. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
With that, he walked out, closing the door behind him.
I took a moment to pull myself together, to try to stop my mind from charging off in a thousand different directions at once. I gave it a good couple of minutes to let Shane leave the building before I walked back out to my desk, sitting down, and putting the phone back on the cradle. We had been in the back for almost an hour. Shane was going to have a hefty bill on his credit statement at the end of the month.
I brought my hands up, resting my face in them for a long moment, trying not to think about the date that weekend.
Tried.
Failed completely.
I wasn’t even sure the last time I had a real date. That just never seemed to be the way it went for me. Most of the time, I met a guy through someone or at a bar or whatever. If there was a strong enough connection, we just immediately started seeing each other. There was never any drawn out anxiety about the upcoming first date. I never had to worry if my dresses were fancy enough. I didn’t have a churning feeling inside, wondering what the hell we would have to talk about for hours over the course of a meal.