“Why don’t you come down here and fight me, asshole!” 32D yells back. “GET A ROOM THAT’S NOT RIGHT OVER MY FUCKING DESK!”
Fuck me. That’s the point when I just fucking lose it. I don’t know what it is about 32D yelling at me like that—but it always makes me blow my load.
I don’t even see it coming. I hear her cute, pissed off little voice shouting up through the floorboards at me like that, and I can’t fucking help myself. I just fucking explode.
I leave the lingerie model in my bed as I head into the bathroom to grab a drink of water.
I make sure to tip the contents of my condom into the bathroom trash before I toss it. There’s a lot of daddy sauce in that thing, and I don’t want any hopeful future mommies trying to smuggle my condoms out of here in their purses again—which happens more often than you’d think.
As I run my fingers through my thick, messy sandy blond hair and look myself in the greens of my eyes in the mirror, I have the weirdest fucking thought, though.
32D. I wonder what color hair she likes.
Oh, yeah. I’ve seen the kind of men she has over to her place.
It’s hard not to keep track when it’s only one or two a year.
Last year, she invited a staggering three to stay the night. A pretentious-looking ginger, a douchebag of a brunet, and some bleach-blonde asshole in a leather jacket.
This year, though, there hasn’t been anyone. I figure 32D has either given up on sex entirely or gone gay. Either way…Christ, what I wouldn’t give to be the one to fix that.
By the time I finish my glass of water, I’m rock fucking hard again. Figures. When you want to go soft, you think of baseball and grandma.
When you want to get hard…you think of 32D.
“Ready for round two?” I stand in the doorway of the bathroom, cock in hand.
“OMG, what?! I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” I smirk, seeing how fucking exhausted she is—and watching her spread her legs for me anyway.
But when I stick it in her, it’s not her that I’m thinking of.
It’s that mouthy, dark-eyed bitch downstairs.
When I make the model cum again, I can practically hear the frustration in 32D’s broom-thumps against my ceiling.
That’s it, baby. Tell Daddy what you don’t fuckin’ like.
Erin
“Oh, god! Fletcher! Please!”
I shake my head and sneer into my coffee cup. “Em, where the fuck does he even find these bimbos?”
Emilia just rolls her eyes. “I dunno, babe. I feel like every dude who lives here in Bradford is just—”
“A massive pussy-gargling douchebag?”
We look at each other like I just took the words right out of her mouth then erupt into laughter.
“At least Evan doesn’t live right over you.” I watch her roll her baby blues again and roll mine right back. “Trust me, babe. Having a dick over your head all night is way worse than having one down the hall.”
“I don’t know about that.” Em shoots me a saucy smile over her latte. “Maybe having a dick over your head is exactly what you need right now.”
I hold up my hand. “I’m gonna stop you right there—because no. Nope. Absolutely not. Sex is the last thing I need right now. I’m so done with dudes, Em. They’re momentary distractions at best, and I don’t need any distractions right now.”
It’s the truth, too. If I want to get into my first-choice master’s program here in the city at NYU, I need to make this application fucking solid. I’ve been up all night at my computer for months editing this film together—not that it’s going to matter at this point.