Who am I kidding? Drew being a manwhore has its perks. Like how in the mornings the women are always trying to impress him by wearing his shirt and cooking him breakfast in the kitchen. At first, I was taken back and slightly threatened but soon realized there’s advantages to his sleeping around. These chicks cook enough for an army. My favorite one-night stand was Jacinta. She cooked me a mean omelet that I craved for weeks. I even asked Drew to bring her back, but it was a big fat ‘no.’ Something about her being clingy and a dud in the bedroom. Such an arrogant asshole.
Drew takes a bottle of aftershave and sprays it on himself. The scent permeates the room, and I inhale it, closing my eyes, enjoying the masculinity of the fragrance. Okay, maybe for a split second I’m craving the touch of a man. God, it’s been forever. You’re on the verge of becoming a nun. A pizza-eating, sweatpants-wearing nun.
“How do I look?” he asks, turning around to face me.
Despite our platonic relationship, I’d be a fool not to see how good he looks. The maroon-checked shirt enhances his tan from his last vacation to Cancun. His dark brown hair is slicked to the side with a slight spike, and his face is freshly shaven showing off his masculine jawline. I notice he’s put in his contacts, his normal reading glasses sitting on his bedside table.
“Good. For a manwhore,” I add.
He moves toward me, leaning down to kiss my forehead. “I love you, too.”
With that said, he grabs his wallet, keys, and cell and tells me to behave.
The door shuts, and I’m alone. Again.
Behave. Impossible to get into trouble when you’re on your own and let out the biggest yawn at only nine o’clock.
Back in my room, I change into my nightie after brushing my teeth and applying my face cream. Pulling back the comforter, I climb into bed and make myself comfortable. The lamp sitting on my bedside table is turned on, so I pull my drawer open and take out my Kindle that conveniently sits next to a pair of handcuffs I got as a gag gift at a bachelorette party. I put my iPod on shuffle and adjust the volume to low. The first song to play is Madonna’s True Blue, and as I softly sing along to the lyrics, my head lies on the pillow, eyes staring widely at the ceiling.
True love, does that even exist?
I used to be a believer but being burned once was enough to make me a pessimist. Yet, I continue to lie here, dreaming that somehow, someway it’ll happen to me. Find that great love that will rock me to my core. A man who will sweep me off my feet and love every part of me—the good, the bad, the ugly.
Alone, and in bed, I switch the Kindle on and begin to read a new release that my online book club is raving about. A book about a jerk, a very hot jerk according to the ladies. Somewhere during the seventh chapter, my eyes struggle to stay open, and once again, I fall asleep to the only thing that keeps me company at night.
My fictional boyfriends.
Chapter Two
Drew
A wide smile spreads across my face as a warm sensation envelops my cock. I must be dreaming one of those fantastic dreams where a girl’s sucking you off like it’s her last meal on earth. My arms stretch above my head, and I let out a longwinded moan, forcing my eyes to open. This is some fucking good head.
The mess of brown hair surrounds my groin, and instantly, my eyes flash wide open, and my body stills in fear while I take in the situation. Oh fuck. Quickly, I close my eyes hoping it’s all just a terrible dream. One that will go away once I reopen them again.
Her name is Michelle something. It only took one flirtatious glance across the dancefloor for me to realize I needed to take her home—long, lean legs that have a nice bronze tan and full tits begging to be played with. The details are blurry—lots of shots and some dirty talk have led to her being in my bed.
We stumbled back to the apartment where I told her to keep her trap shut if she wanted me to fuck her. Great, she cooperated. But then it happened. On our second round somewhere during the night, she started to blow me, and since the both of us were completely out of it, I ignored the fact that she was talking to my cock. Baby talk. As I said, we both had a lot to drink, and just when I think I can move past that, she begins to giggle as she strokes my shaft.
“Who’s the cutest little peewee in the room?” She giggles childishly.
&n
bsp; And there it is again.
No man, and I repeat, no man wants their cock referred to as ‘little peewee.’ Especially since I know I’m not little, and I don’t think peewee is the appropriate terminology for anyone above the age of four. Shit! How do I get out of this? My cock starts to feel flaccid, but I want to let her down gently without causing a scene.
My head moves toward the clock on my nightstand—seven o’clock. I told Zoey we would leave for the beach at seven. To her credit, she hasn’t knocked on the door to wake me up. No fucking surprises. It’s now or never.
“Uh, Michelle.” I gently tug on her hair hoping I used the correct name. “As much as I would love for you to continue, I promised some friends I’d be somewhere shortly.”
Lifting her head, the mess of brown hair surrounds her pretty face. The bright red lipstick which was perfectly applied last night is smeared across her lips, and beneath her vibrant blue eyes are traces of leftover mascara. Jesus, not the best sight. What the hell was I thinking?
You weren’t thinking. You wanted to get laid.
She bows her head, giggling once again, continuing to latch onto my cock. “Surely, a couple of minutes won’t hurt?”
Of course, a couple of minutes won’t hurt. But how can I blow under these circumstances? Her mouth envelops my cock once again, and with her childish noises gone, I shut my eyes tight trying to remember my night with that French woman, Bijou. Now she was all woman—mid-forties, mature, and knew how to get me off quickly.