More by Sloan Parker (best ebook reader for chromebook .txt) 📕

than your body.” He leaned forward and whispered. “Your parents aren't the only people in the world who can love you.”

“Yeah. And they aren't the only ones who can fuck you over.” Walter might have been the one person I could let go in front of and still be able to look at myself in the mirror the next morning, but I wasn't about to test the theory.

He continued to probe me with his stare. I found myself pondering what the man must have been thinking. Why did I let my parents have control over my life? Why did I let what they thought about me garner much import when it came to how I lived? And why the hell did spending more than one night with a guy scare the shit out of me?

“All right. Enough,” I said. “Quit looking at me. I've got a lot of things I'm fucked up about. I know that. I don't need you to remind me. This is who I am. I'm enjoying my life.”

“You could have more, you know. More than fucking at the club.”

I scanned the slew of men surrounding our table. “I happen to like fucking at the club.” As the words left my mouth, Matthew walked by the bar. His damp hair stuck out every which way, the waves returning. He wore a broad smile, and the man had a definite spring in his step. I smirked.

“I know you do,” Walter said. “But trust me, one day you'll be old like me and you won't be able to sit alone in the silence for more than five minutes at a time. Your life will suffocate you.”

Concern for him welled in my chest. I had no idea what to do about it.

Walter's shoulders slumped as he sank into the chair. “I wouldn't have traded my time with Gary for anything in the world. I have a past I can look back on. It's what I hold on to when I'm lonely. You have no past and no future. Your misery will encompass you until not even your random sexual encounters will be able to make it all go away.”

I spotted Richard as he stepped down the stairs. He stopped and scanned the bar, and his gaze stilled once it landed on me. I expected him to walk past and leave the club.

He didn't. He strode toward me.

Walter stood. “I've got to go.”

“Don't run off.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Call me when you get a chance.”

“I didn't mean to rush your friend off.” The voice was as husky and strong as it'd been when he'd first spoken to me.

I stood. “It's fine.”

Richard stepped closer, his gaze fixated on me. The stare was intense, like maybe he thought he'd imagined the entire escapade upstairs until he saw me in the bar. “I wanted you to know I had a great evening.”

“Yeah, the best I've had in quite a while.” I could have kicked myself. What was it about him that made me say things I'd never admit to anyone, not even myself?

He lifted a hand and stroked the side of my neck, grazing my chin with his thumb. The touch was more intimate than anything he'd done to me upstairs.

A swell of nerves gathered in my gut. Was I enjoying his touch that much?

“I'm glad,” he said. “I must admit I haven't been to the club in a while. It far exceeded my expectations.”

I smiled at him before he dropped his hand and walked away.

I'd completely lost my mind.

I awoke the next morning hard as hell and pissed off.

I couldn't get them out of my head. I heard the grunts and moans, mine and theirs. Felt Matthew's tongue in my mouth. Heard Richard's groan as he came. Tasted his lips. Felt his dick slide in and out of me.

It was odd and disconcerting and hot as hell.

I pushed them out of my mind, threw back the sheet, and planted my feet on the bed. I grasped my dick in my hand and gave a few good strokes. It never took much to find my release.

Until then.

I bolted out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. The shower caddy had lube, and the heat of the water relaxed me in a way little else did.

The water turned tepid, and I still ran my hand over my dick.

The hot water in my cheap-ass apartment was for shit. There was never time for fancy jerk-off sessions. Normally that didn't bother me. I never had so much damn trouble getting off.

I concentrated on the slide of my hand and quickened the pace. I squeezed harder, ran my thumb over the tip, and jerked my hips. Finally, my body tightened, and I slapped the shower wall with my free hand as I came. I washed and got out before the water could go from cold to frigid.

Dressed and ready to focus on anything else, I headed for the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. My apartment was small. One bedroom with space for a bed and not much else, the bathroom, a kitchen that accommodated a three-legged folding table leaning against the wall, and a small living room I'd set up as an office, complete with a battered particle board desk that smelled like petrified glue. I poured a cup of coffee and took a seat at the desk. The folding chair creaked under my weight. The damn thing was bound to break, but it was the best of the set. It should last until I moved again.

The only other furniture in the room was a tattered, stained orange couch that smelled of sweat and dope and had too many places where the springs rubbed my ass. I hadn't bothered replacing it. I'd do as someone else did when I acquired it— leave it and the table and chairs for whoever rented the shithole apartment after me. I moved too much to care about the furniture I kept. I still had boxes of