Page 12 of Unwrapped
Mood Music: “Giants” by Dermot Kennedy
Idon’t know if Camille was fucking with me or if she genuinely meant what she said. Either way, I can’t stop the lust freight train from barreling into me. My brain taunts me with visions of her on her knees in front of me, those gorgeous pink lips wrapped around my cock, swallowing me down like she’s starved for me. Or her beneath me, clawing my back as I thrust inside her. Even better, her delicate wrists tied to the bedpost, holding her in place so I can touch, taste, and fuck her until we don’t know our names.
Groaning, I lean against the tile and palm my hard cock. The shower’s cool water hasn’t done a damn thing to calm my arousal. I need to relieve the tension inside me before I snap, which means I have to rub one out in the middle of the day while my friends are all downstairs. Whatever. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I stroke myself from base to tip, rubbing hard and fast, just how I like it. My only goal right now is to come as soon as possible, but if given the chance to be with Camille, I wouldn’t rush a damn thing. No, I’d take my time exploring every inch of her body. I’d spend hours kissing and licking her until she was breathless and screaming.
Maybe I want you to force me.
Her words echo in my head as I move. She always had a feisty, take-charge attitude when we were in college. I couldn’t imagine her surrendering control to a man—in any capacity—but who knows? Maybe she likes being bossed around in the bedroom. None of my ex-girlfriends wanted any part of my dominant side, so I never had the opportunity to explore the kink I tried so hard to suppress. What if Camille gave me free rein over her body?
I could fuck her the way I always wanted to.
Another groan leaves my chest with the thought, this one rooted in frustration when I remember she hates me. Annoyed with myself for indulging in an impossible fantasy, I tug my dick harder, ready to get this shower jerk-off session done and over with.
Except now I’m more pissed off than horny.
The orgasm that was hovering on the horizon has retreated to the darkened corners of my mind. My thoughts drift to that place where self-loathing and regret run the show, and my hard-on follows, slinking into the shadows like a banished dog.
My passivity is pretty ironic for a man who craves dominance, but it has been that way since birth. I’m forty minutes older than Ryan, born perfectly healthy. He was a different story. When it came time for him to come out, Mom was too exhausted to push. His heart rate kept dropping, so the doctors performed an emergency C-section. Once safely out of the womb, he required a lengthy NICU stay due to underdeveloped lungs.
As the “sick” twin, he needed more care from the jump. Even after his health improved, he demanded our mother’s undivided attention—and received it—while I patiently waited my turn. Our philandering father was never around, and she hadtwoinfants to care for. As a single mom, struggling to make ends meet, life depleted her energy reserves. Maybe I sensed she was stretched to her limit, or maybe I learned over the years how to make her life easier, but that’s what I did.
Our elderly neighbor, Doris, would check in from time to time, lending Mom a hand when she could. When I had lunch with Doris a few years before she passed away, she shared anecdotes from when Ryan and I were little. None of them surprised me—they simply reinforced what I already knew. Doris said I never fussed when I was hungry or tired, content to lay in a soiled diaper until Mom got around to changing me. I didn’t complain, whine, or throw tantrums as a toddler. My brother did enough of that.
My own memories from childhood are filled with examples of how I stepped aside for Ryan’s benefit. I didn’t ask for help with my homework, or ask Mom to play with me, because I didn’t want to detract from the little free time she had. I didn’t participate in afterschool activities or sports because Ryan already had her running all over town every night for his extracurriculars. I didn’t partake in field trips because there was only so much money to go around, and I knew he’d make her feel guilty if he didn’t get to go to every single one. Or buy every book he wanted at the Scholastic Book Fairs or get the newest brand-name sneakers.
No, that wasn’t me.Iread the books Ryan lost interest in, dressed in hand-me-downs from our cousin, and wore thrift store shoes. I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every single day because Mom couldn’t afford to buy school lunches for both of us. I filled my Christmas list with necessities—like socks and underwear—while Ryan demanded video games. I snuck my weekly allowance back into Mom’s wallet, so she’d have money for gas.
I was the boy she called her “strong one.” Yes, my health gave me a physical advantage, but it didn’t translate into emotional toughness—I still needed love and nurturing, a mother’s care and support. But I didn’t receive it. Even though Ryan was equally healthy by the time we were two, Mom never got over her fears. She made it my job to look after my brother. Protect him and help him thrive, even at my own expense.
It makes sense I became a doctor—The Dean West default mode is to put everyone else first. Heal and do no harm. Accept and retreat instead of fighting for what I want, need, or deserve.
That’s exactly what I did when Ryan pursued Camille. Instead of going after her, I faded into the background. In doing so, I allowed him to hurt her, which is something I’ll never forgive myself for.
Sighing, I turn off the water and snag a towel, briskly rubbing it over my body. It doesn’t make sense to harp on life’s what-ifs or shoulda, coulda, wouldas. I can’t change the past. All I can do is plug along in my boring existence and wait for my turn.
But even the strong ones need attention sometimes.
I quickly dress and head downstairs to where everyone’s gathered in the kitchen, peering into a big, white box.
Lena points. “If you guys don’t mind, I’m gonna snag this one. I’ve been salivating for it since we left the bakery.”
“Go for it,” Jude says.
“What kind is it?” Hudson asks.
She holds up an enormous cupcake. “This one’s called Caramel Kama Sutra, and it’s my absolute favorite. I adore all things caramel.”
“Do they all have sexy names?” Talia asks.
Lena nods. “It’s Geneva’s specialty. Her twin, Lorelei, owns Oral Fixation, a sex-themed dessert bar in this area.”
“Oh my God, I love that place,” Jordana gushes, snatching a cupcake. “I’m taking the Amaretto Afterglow one. If it’s anything like Lorelei’s amaretto cookies, I’ll be driving down to the city to buy this bakery out.”
Sawyer glances at me. “You want a cupcake?”
“Yeah.” My stomach growls in support. “What are my options?”
