This is not how this fantasy goes. And I drift to it plenty of nights on the road.
I go to my dresser, grab a t-shirt and boxers for her to wear, and throw them to her. "You're drunk."
"If I was drunk, I'd be numb and I wouldn't have to ask." She slides the leather jacket off her arms and pushes herself off the bed. "Please, Ethan. You have any idea how badly I hate myself for asking you this?"
"That line work on other guys?"
"I don't mean it like that."
"You have more game than this."
"Okay. Let me start over." She plays with the hem of my t-shirt. Then her fingers are on my bare skin, sending heat to all my appendages. "It's not just that I want to feel something else. You were good. The best I've ever had."
"You're fucking with me." I bite my tongue so I won't ask questions about these other guys she's been fucking.
"No. I still think about you. About your calloused fingers between my legs." She moves closer, until her breath is warming my skin. "I think about that night in the lifeguard stand."
Goddammit, that's a fucking fantastic thought. I want to push that dress to her waist and stroke her until she comes.
She looks up at me. Her eyes are on fire with confidence. "I think about the way you screamed my name. About the way you pulled my hair when you came."
Fuck, I want her badly enough I'm considering this.
But I'm nobody's distraction. Especially not Violet's.
She presses her hips against mine. "You're hard."
Harder than I've been in a long time. "You're drunk."
She shakes her head. "I'm not." She brings her lips to my ear. "You were going to fuck the slut in the cheap heels."
"And your heels?"
She takes a step backwards. "These are Aerosoles. Or maybe Naturalizers. I forget, but they're good shit. Nice. Expensive."
I have to laugh. She laughs too. It breaks up the tension, sexual or otherwise. For a second, it's like everything is normal, like before we broke up, before her brother died.
Nobody else makes me feel like this.
I smile at Violet. "Aren't those shoes for soccer moms?"
She folds her arms. "I'm twenty-three."
"Twenty-four in two weeks."
She frowns, taken aback by me remembering her birthday. But that's ridiculous. We were together for three years. I remember way more than her fucking birthday. I remember every inch of her, every groan or moan or scream that fell off her lips.
Goddammit, I want to rip off her clothes and fuck her until she's screaming.
Thank God for self-respect or I'd already have my head between her legs.
Violet teases back. "If I'm twenty-three, then these shoes are obviously for twenty-three year olds. I can't help it that most people my age don't appreciate good arch support."
"I'm not gonna fuck you, Vi."
"I figured that out already."
"It won't help you turn off your brain. Your brain doesn't have an off switch."