All my life, I’d been accused of being too much.
“Too out there.”
“Too artsy.”
“Too deranged.”
“Too petty.”
“Too lanky.”
“Too independent.”
“Too mouthy.”
“Too much.”
I took the insults and inhaled them as if they were compliments, swallowing each and every one with a cupidity that suggested they made me happy.
And they did.
I liked being too much because it meant I was never too little. I never held back. I never bit my tongue. I never pretended to be someone else.
My critics were right. I was out there, artsy, deranged, petty, lanky, busty, independent, and mouthy.
And for the most part, I liked myself.
There.
I said it.
But I didn’t like myself tonight.
Hank Prescott’s death had been preventable. Reed had kept that from me. Betty had kept that from me. Nash had kept that from me—and hated me.
And me?
I smelled like Nash did before he hated me.
A thief cloaked in a tiger’s scent.
The first thing I should have done when I ran back to my closet—barely remembering to shove my towel and shower caddy into my knock-off backpack that read “Jana Sport” rather than “JanSport”—was call Reed or Betty. Better yet, I should have tendered my resignation and gotten my ass out of dodge.
Instead, I sprawled across my sheets, spraying water everywhere because I hadn’t even bothered to dry my hair. Flashes of Nash moments ago rattled me.
Steam licking his bare chest.
His sharp inhale at the sight of my breasts.
Wetness gathering between my legs as he glared at me like he wanted to hate-fuck me.
My shaky hands barely managed to hold my phone.
I pulled up the Eastridge United app and shot a message to the one person who never judged me, my lust so thick it almost seemed tangible.
Durga: I need to come.
His reply came in seconds as if he’d had the app open to our chat when I messaged.
Benkinersophobia: I already have my cock in my hands. Strip out of your clothes, spread your legs, and tell me how much you want my cock.
I did as he asked, realizing I’d returned in my t-shirt and underwear, leaving my jeans hostage in Nash’s bathroom. Shit. The other pants I owned were oversized sweatpants that would fit an entire cruise ship. Ones I reserved for laundry day.
Durga: If you don’t make me come within the next ten seconds, I’m deleting this app.
Benkinersophobia: Cum not come. Say it correctly. Better yet, say it out loud. Beg me to make you cum.
I did, never backing down, even when my cheeks flamed as I panted to empty air, “Make me come, Ben.”
It was Nash I pictured hovering above me. The vicious eyes. The messed-up hair. And now I knew what he looked like beneath his shirt. Vast muscles stretched the width of his body. A deep V led to what I remembered, all these years later, as a long, thick cock.
My lips craved the scars peppering his body.
I wanted to kiss them.
Bite them.
Trace them with my tongue.
I didn’t believe in the word perfect. Never used it to describe anything in my life. But it was the only word I could conjure when it came to Nash’s body. His personality might have left a lot to be desired, but his body and face left me aching.
Durga: Please, make me cum. My fingers are tracing my clit. Tell me what to do with them.
Benkinersophobia: I didn’t say you could touch your pussy. Wrap your mouth around your fingers, imagine they’re my cock, and apologize for disobeying.
Drawing my knees together, I kneeled and brought my fingers to my mouth, my heart threatening to escape my chest in the darkness. I could taste myself on my tongue as I slid three fingers past my lips and imagined Nash standing above me, feeding me his hard cock.
I whispered around my fingers, “I’m sorry for disobeying you.”
Jesus.
I was so turned on. Relinquishing control drove me crazy. I wanted to feel dominated, overpowered, fucked so thoroughly I couldn’t walk. Even with a knife to my throat and the threat of death dangling above me, I would never admit it was because rough, hard sex reminded me of how Nash fucked.
My first orgasm from sex.
My only orgasm from sex.
And I was so wet thinking about him, I could feel it sliding past my lips. I picked up my phone and squeezed my thighs together, trying to bring relief.
Durga: I can taste myself on my fingers.
Benkinersophobia: Describe the taste to me.
Durga: Light… Almost like nothing, but with a hint of citrus and vanilla from my body wash.
Durga: I like the taste.
Benkinersophobia: Pull out the vibrator I sent you, connect it to the app, lay on your back, and let me fuck you raw. Text me when it’s inside you.
I reached for one of my boxes stacked in the corner, blindly fished out the vibrator Ben had sent me ages ago, and connected it to the company’s app. Ben had full access to the app, which meant he could control it from wherever he was.
Laying on my back, I rubbed the tip on my nub before sliding the entire length inside me.
Durga: It’s in me.
My fingers clenched the sheets as the vibrator came to life inside me. It pulsed to a steady rhythm, and just when I was close, Ben slowed the vibrations until I wanted to scream.
Benkinersophobia: Not so fast.
Durga: Ass.
Benkinersophobia: Beg me to make you cum.
Durga: Please.
Benkinersophobia: Please, what?
Durga: Please, make me cum.
He turned up the speed, the ribbed edges creating friction that had my eyes rolling back. I brought my hands to my breasts and squeezed, flicking each of my nipples, remembering how it felt to have Nash staring at me.
Staring at them.
My breaths fogged the tiny room. They came out in uneven pants. I came so hard, screaming Nash’s name, too exerted to even feel guilty. My arms moved like jello, but I forced myself to slide the vibrator out of my body and turn it off.
When I came down from the orgasm, I shot Ben a text.
Durga: Thank you.
Benkinersophobia: Fuck, I needed that.
Durga: I’m sorry I came to your words with Nash’s face on my mind. Nash’s tortured faced with the fucked-up childhood, and the scarred body, and the dead Dad. Nash, who sacrificed himself for his family and was hurt because of mine. I’m sorry I love you but get wet for Nash.
I didn’t send the last message.
It was too honest.
Too real.
Too raw.
Nash had it wrong.
I wasn’t the broken.
I was the breaker.
