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What the fuck just happened?
As I turn my back on her, walking in the opposite direction towards my apartment, I immediately regret what I said.
Why did I say that? Maybe, next time… What the fuck?
I almost turn around, change my mind, and let my desire for her take over. But I don’t. I keep going forward and forcing myself to get my shit together.
I need to stop thinking about her, and why I didn’t go in—why I didn’t say yes. I wanted her to ask me. And I wanted to go with her.
Everything in me wanted to fuck her against those familiar walls, her bed, the kitchen counters—like we’d done so many times before in her apartment. And then she did, she asked me. Like I told her to.
I shake my head in disbelief. What I thought would give me pleasure—a vindictive type of pleasure—did the exact opposite. I wanted her to beg for me, because I wanted to see that look on her face—the one filled with want and need.
The look on her face was priceless. Not going to lie, it did feel fucking great to see and hear it. When would it not?
But when she asked, when she finally fucking listened to me—for once—I had to fight everything in me that was screaming yes.
Fuck, why didn’t I?
I had her right where I wanted her. But I’ll admit, it was more than this night that I wanted to say yes to.
I wanted to say yes to more, with her. More than we’ve planned for, and more than this arrangement is supposed to allow. So, I had to fucking say no.
But now, I feel even shittier then I did when the suits forced me into this arrangement. Though, admittedly, I was a little excited when they did.
I breathe in the cool night air, and run a hand through my damp hair, hoping that it’ll calm and still my very hot and bothered self. I honestly thought I would like this game, but it’s so much more frustrating than I would’ve ever imagined.
I laugh, recalling just how irrationally I was thinking earlier tonight, with my hand between her legs, massaging and playing with her. My body shivers, and I stick my hands in my pocket to move my cock in a more comfortable position. It immediately becomes hard, as I playback my touching her in my mind.
I have to slow my stride to accommodate for its stiffness—it’s almost agonizing. It’s not like it’s been a while since I’ve had release with a woman. I’ve had my fair share of sweet cunts since hers, but hers is one of the sweetest.
And definitely not in the pleasant way someone would describe a woman, because she’s the farthest thing from being sweet. Rather, it’s a taste that’s addicting. It’s a sweetness that you’ll always remember, and always crave to have.
Just like any other addiction, you search for anything, something to replace your craving, but, to your dismay, you can’t find anything like it. Nothing can give you that same fix. To have her sweetness again, makes me pulsate in anticipation.
Addiction is real. And I know, I won’t be able to keep myself from taking her next time. It’s too much willpower for one person to take, and I’ll be damned if I make myself exercise it again.
Reaching the lobby of my apartment, the regret continues to eat at me, and it grows with every passing floor that lights up as the elevator arrives at my floor.
I open my door, and the feeling intensifies, almost to the point of nausea. Never in my wildest fucking dreams, would I have thought saying no to that damn woman would make me feel this way. But now, I’m fucking sulking, beating myself up because of it.
I let the door slam behind me, and I head straight to the bar, and pour myself a whiskey neat, wanting to numb this gnawing ache. Swallowing it in one gulp, I pour another. Warmth slides down my throat, and quickly envelopes my body.
I say a silent thank you to the brown liquid as it makes me feel normal again. Somewhat. I’m distracted by the whiskey comfort, when my back pocket vibrates.
I instinctively roll my eyes. The last thing I want to do is talk to someone, or deal with whatever situation is on the other side of my phone.
The past few days have been enough for me. And then leaving Elsa like that tonight, was the fucking cherry on top of the shit show sundae.
Yeah, I know it was my fault, but I can’t regret what I ordered.
I walk into my office, leaving the lights off, and fall against my large leather office chair, rolling it away from my desk.
Shit.
I grab onto the edge of the cherry wood desk, set my whiskey down, and pull myself forward, throwing my phone next to my drink. Refraining from picking it up, I glance at the screen when it lights up. The notifications require that I scroll down to read them all, and I notice two emails from my office and a shit ton of google alerts.