Page 48 of Faking It
And yet I do.
Walk into the hotel, Low. Get your space.
Clear your head.
I COULDN’T FUCKING SLEEP.
It’s not because Harlow wasn’t here. Couldn’t be.
And yet she’s who I’m thinking about as I stand in the shower with my dick in my hand. The hot water. The slick soap. The thought of her sliding over my cock with her fingers pressed against my chest, tits bouncing as she hovers above me, and that soft keening sound coming from the back of her throat like she did when I kissed her the other night.
It’s not what I want—my hand—instead of the heat of her pussy but fuck if I’ll take it because sleeping beside her night after night is enough to test a man.
Even worse, not sleeping beside her last night had me thinking about her nonstop.
Was she really alone or was she putting those condoms she brought to good use?
I push the thought from my mind and focus on her. Her tits. Her ass. Her voice. What I can only imagine she’d feel like.
And when I come with a groan that fills the small bathroom, it’s nowhere near satisfying enough.
At. All.
Christ. This fucking sucks. The thought remains as I scrub a towel through my hair then wrap it around my waist so I can lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling to . . . clear my head? Not think of her? See through the fog of my hangover that lingers from last night, when I perched myself in the hotel bar on the off chance that maybe Harlow was lying to me. That maybe she was meeting up with someone and they’d come to the bar where I was.
Yeah, it’s that bad.
Even worse was the women sidling up beside me at the bar, angling for so much more than the drinks they were hinting at me to buy them. Normally I’d buy, we’d talk, and go from there, but for some reason I really wasn’t interested.
Harlow’s fucking up my mojo and doesn’t even know it.
I groan again and it’s definitely not because I’m coming again thinking of Harlow.
How in the hell did I get in this predicament in the first place? It’s all fucking Kostas’ fault. Isn’t that how it’s always been?
I think back to our trip. To the nights full of friends, alcohol, and maybe a bit of trouble. To the bet we all made.
“I’m bored.”
I look over to Kostas. He’s leaned back in his chair with his shoulder-length hair falling out of its ponytail and onto his face, a litter of empty beer bottles sits before him on the table. He has that look in his eye that tells me he’s looking to start trouble.
Won’t be the first time I’ve seen that expression. I’m sure it won’t be the last either.
“Whatever it is you’re in for, I’m out, mate,” I murmur, noting that my comment pulls Enzo’s focus away from the raven-haired woman across the outdoor patio who’s owned his attention for the past few minutes.
“Uh-oh,” Mateo says, the scrape of his chair on the concrete beneath us. “Last time you were bored, I ended up taking the brunt of it.”
“That was two years ago.” Kostas says with a roll of his eyes. “Munaki,” he mutters calling him a pussy in his native language.
“Jail is jail,” Mateo says, but his smile belies his firm tone of voice.
“C’mon. It was a mix up. You didn’t spend more than thirty minutes behind bars.”
“What is it you’re thinking about?” Enzo cuts off the fight Kostas and Mateo are surely headed for.
“I’m bored,” Kostas repeats. “I need to be challenged. I go to the office day in and day out and it’s the same fucking bullshit. I want to figure something out. I want to create something and make it succeed.”
“You can make anything succeed when you throw unending money at it,” Mateo counters.
