His face had a reckless look about it. Reckless—but amped. An anxious energy was building in his veins, gearing up for the hunt, ready to conquer. He closed his eyes, picturing a head dipping between his thighs, and could feel himself growing hard.
It wouldn’t be long now. He could wait. Unless...
His eyes flew open and he surveyed the almost-empty car. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go that far after all. The lone woman on board seemed to be in her mid-forties and engrossed in a novel, not bothering to look up even though he was sure she could feel his eyes on her. As the train rolled to a stop, she stood up, with not so much as a glance at him as she brushed by and walked out.
He sighed and looked around again, hoping someone new got on. A young, waifish guy in the corner caught his eye; he’d obviously been watching his perusal. They locked eyes for a moment, and Evan briefly considered taking the guy up on the challenge he was issuing. He’d never been with a man, never had to, but he wasn’t looking to fuck tonight. The guy had hands and a mouth, and that was more than enough to ease the ache in his balls.
But as quickly as that thought entered his mind, the inner fucking voice of reason shut it down. He wasn’t that desperate. Not yet. There was a world of pussy out there, and it wouldn't be hard to find a woman to get on her knees.
When the train reached his stop, he gave a slight shake of his head at the guy before looking away and exiting the car.
* * *
EVEN FOR A weeknight, the bar was packed. It was one of the seedier places on this corner, the clientele of a rougher sort and only there for the two-dollar beers and occasional bar fight.
He didn’t bother grabbing a drink; alcohol only fogged his mind, and he liked keeping those memories so he could use them later. He also wasn’t in the mood to waste time. There would be no hotel room, no bringing anyone back to his place. A mouth or a hand would suffice, and at this point, he didn’t give a fuck if it happened right here in the middle of the bar.
He made his way to the old jukebox in the back corner of the room, which had always proved to be a good spot for his pickups. Single, lonely women loved to pour their hearts out via song selection, making it the prime spot for exactly what he was looking for.
There was someone there now—she was short, perfect for the position he had in mind, and to say she was curvy was an understatement. Her black hair was angled in a severe cut that stopped above her shoulders, and it showed off the ripped tank top she was wearing with only a bra underneath.
That was a woman who was begging for the slide of his cock down her throat. He almost wondered if he should find someone a bit more challenging, but the insistent throb in his jeans proved that she’d suffice.
Pushing his hands in his pockets, he rearranged his cock before coming to a stop just behind her.
“Interesting choice,” he said, peering over her shoulder and eyeing her selection. A melodramatic tune that could only mean one thing. “Bad breakup?”
She whipped around, a ‘fuck off’ on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it back when she got a look at his face. He watched as she straightened, her eyes quickly looking him up and down as she self-consciously tugged on the hem of her shirt.
“Maybe I just like the song.”
“Or maybe some asshole broke your heart.”
A blush crossed her full cheeks when he flashed what he hoped was a charming smile. “Is it that obvious?”
“A song called ‘Love Hurts’? Nah. Not obvious at all.”
When she laughed then, he knew he had her. He wouldn’t even have to bother with the formalities of buying her a drink, and for saving himself a Hamilton, he mentally patted himself on the back.
“He must be an idiot, that guy.” He leaned down closer to her ear to lay it on thick. “You’re sexy as fuck,” he said, drawing out the last word, letting his nose oh-so-slightly graze her neck before pulling back to catch her reaction.
Her flush had deepened, and with the way her chest was heaving, he’d have bet his condo that she was instantly wet.
Oh yeah. Putty in his hands.
Within ten minutes, she’d followed him outside and into the alley beside the club, tightly clutching the back of his belt loop. Lust must have been clogging her brain, because following a stranger out there was a stupid move on her part—but one he was grateful for at the moment.
He walked her farther down, past a dumpster that would serve nicely for blocking them from curious passersby on the street. Not that he would’ve given a fuck who saw what was about to go down. Or, rather, who.
Pulling her around in front of him, he grabbed her plump ass in his hands and walked her backwards. She sighed in pleasure until a breeze blew through the alley and the stench of garbage wafted past. Then she gripped his arms and peered at their surroundings, her expression turning to one of disgust. Broken beer bottles, used condoms, and food wrappers lined the alley, but he barely gave them a glance, too intent on satisfying his hunger.
“Are you sure we can’t wait for the bathro—” she started to say but stopped as her back hit the brick wall he’d backed her into.
“I can’t wait for you that long,” he said, rubbing himself against her, letting her feel how hard he was. Her protests immediately ceased.
“Oh...fuck,” she groaned as he sucked her neck and moved one of his hands to her breast. She had more than a handful to play with, and though he hadn’t intended on giving tonight, he couldn’t resist pulling her shirt down to take a hard nipple into his mouth.
Her breath hitched, and one of her hands came up to hold him there, urging him to keep sucking away at her, but he wasn’t about to let her take control. Grabbing her other hand, he pushed it down to cover his rock-solid length, showing her exactly what he wanted. She rubbed her palm up and down, keeping the pressure steady as he flicked her nipple with his tongue. When she cried out, she squeezed his cock, and he broke contact and pulled away to unfasten his jeans.
“Put your hand down your panties,” he rasped, taking his cock out to stroke himself.
She looked down at his pumping hand and then back at him in confusion.
He brought his face closer to hers. “I want your fingers in your pussy,” he said in a low voice. “Get ‘em nice and fucking wet. And then I want them around my cock.”
Her fingers shook as she reached down to draw up her skirt—whether from nerves or anticipation, he didn’t give a damn. As her skirt rose, he noticed that her large thighs were bare, covered only in sparrow tattoos that began at her hip and wound their way around her legs. The material continued to rise until it bunched at her hips and left pink, cotton panties exposed. It didn't faze him that they were probably the least attractive pair he’d ever seen. He only cared about the fact that they were soaked the fuck through. Her hand dipped inside the fabric, her eyes never leaving his face.
Licking his lips in anticipation, he momentarily stopped stroking himself so he could pull the sides of her panties down. He wanted to watch.
She rubbed her palm over her slit. “Like...like this?” she stammered.
He nodded his approval. “Now put one inside.”
Pushing her chubby pointer finger as far as it could go, she obeyed his command.
“And another.”
Next, her middle finger sank deep into her wet hole.
He swallowed thickly. “Another.”
By now, she was breathing heavily, her hips slowly rolling as she inserted a third digit.
“Good girl,” he praised, ardently watching as she began to fuck herself, her thumb rolling in circles against her clit. She was so goddamn turned on that he could hear it.
But he didn’t come here to watch her all night.
“Now put your hand around my cock.” Holding his shaft out to her, he could barely contain how badly he needed a fist other than his own to fuck.
After she pulled her fingers out, she wrapped her hand around the head in a slippery grip before slowly but firmly sliding them down. At this,
he gave a violent shudder, his hands reaching out to slap against the brick on either side of her head. With every glide, the smell of her arousal grew stronger, coating every inch of him.
Struggling to draw out his pleasure a little longer, he kept his hands where they were, pushing so hard against the rough wall that he could feel it scrape his palms as he rocked his body up and down, in and out of her clenched fingers.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned, throwing his head back, reveling in the high and letting it take him over.
“That’s so fuckin’ hot,” he heard her say before she took her hand away.
He looked down to watch as she fell to her knees, so caught up in watching his pleasure from what she was doing to him that she didn’t give any thought to the trash she’d knelt down among. Her mouth opened wide for him, gripping the base of his shaft and taking him between her lips.
She was rough in her eagerness to please, clipping him with the edges of her teeth—a move that could only mean inexperience—and causing his hips to buck. He welcomed the pain though. He knew he deserved it and didn’t bother moving his hands from the wall to guide her head.
Faster and with bruising intensity, she sucked, and as his hips wrenched back and forth into her mouth, he pictured a blond head bobbing against his thighs instead of the black one currently between them. The visual caused his orgasm to unexpectedly surge out of him.
To her credit, her greedy mouth drank every bit of what he gave her, licking him clean until there was nothing else to swallow.
* * *
ON THE TRAIN ride home, he sat in the last car again, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. The high only ever lasted so long before the nausea and self-loathing kicked in. He looked up, forcing himself to watch his reflection in the window across from him as New York’s underground passed by behind it. The man he was observing was nothing like the one he’d seen an hour ago. That guy had been confident, motivated. Nothing like the pathetic air of desperation emanating from the person staring back at him.
How long would he do this? This endless fucking cycle he couldn’t seem to stop.
He dropped his face in his hands once more, unable to keep looking at that which he hated.
CHAPTER THREE
HE FUCKING HATED job interviews. They were such a waste of time. No one ever presented their true selves to get a job, and everything said within the allotted time frame was a lie. There was only one thing to accomplish—to be the biggest liar of them all.
As he stood there in his pressed suit and tie, he felt he had that in the bag. He was lying to himself and everyone else if they thought this was who he really was. No, his true self now was the animal that had fucked the brains out of a third-rate, available pussy the night before in an alley of waste and despair.
After stepping off the elevator, he buttoned his suit jacket as he scanned the lobby. Today’s version of Evan James would try to be on his best behavior, and if he could keep his zipper shut and his dick in his pants, he just might pull it off. But with one glance at the perky, young receptionist sitting behind the front desk, that notion was quickly shut down.
“Good morning,” she greeted. “Can I help you?”
The bright smile she aimed his way made him think of several ways she could help him, none of which were office appropriate.
“Oh, I’m sure you could, but I’m here for a meeting. Evan James. I have a nine o’clock with Mr. Kelman and Ms. Spencer.”
The receptionist’s smile stayed in place but relayed little interest in his suggestive remark. “Of course. One moment.”
She stood up from her desk and walked over to a shut door he assumed led to their offices. As she disappeared through the door, his eyes drifted down to her round ass, which was squeezed into a knee-length skirt.
Stop thinking with your cock.
He looked around the empty lobby before reaching down to adjust his growing erection. He only had to make it through an hour-long, at best, meeting without fucking things up. Even he could do that. Hopefully Ms. Spencer was an old hag with a chicken neck.
“Mr. James?”
He turned to see that the receptionist had reappeared and was waiting until she had his attention.
“They’ll see you now.” She inclined her head back toward the door, indicating that he should follow her.
This time, he kept his eyes off the woman in front of him and focused on his surroundings as he walked behind her through the wide halls of Kelman Corporations.
She led him down a dark-wooded corridor, the walls lined with gilded frames of company achievements, and past an alcove that featured a sitting area with a small table adorned with an elegant arrangement of fresh calla lilies and a high-back leather chair.
“You can wait right here. Ms. Spencer will be out shortly.”
He nodded his thanks and sat down, keeping his eyes on the ground and not on the figure walking away from him.
Just one hour. You’ve fucking got this.
It’d be nice to actually have a job again and not worry about having to sell his paid-off Range Rover, which was currently valeted downstairs. That, his condo, and a few business suits were all that remained of his former life, and he’d been holding on to them like a lifeline, needing them to keep up with his playboy façade. He’d royally fucked himself out of a career he loved, and not in the good way. This was his last and only chance, and he needed to nail it.
In his head, he ran through his career highlights, ticking them off one by one, getting his mind back on the task at hand. He came from a family of financial managers, and he wanted this job. The irony of being broke while helping others with their investments was not lost on him, but he knew that, when he was switched on and focused, he was one of the best in the business.
The door at the end of the hall opened, and as his gaze drifted up, the first thing he noticed walking towards him in wicked-looking high heels was a pair of long, shapely legs. Legs that did not bring to mind the words ‘old’ and ‘hag.’
Fuck me if this is Ms. Spencer.
As his eyes continued their upward perusal, they took in the figure-hugging red skirt that hit just above the knee and clung to her shapely thighs and hips before cinching at her waist. The black blouse she was wearing looked silky to the touch and made his fingers tingle with the need to—
“Hello again, Mr. James.”
The velvet voice that came out was not what he’d been expecting, nor was the face that greeted him. She was looking at him with a smirk on her face—one that said she wasn’t surprised at all to see him. In fact, Blondie even seemed...proud of herself.
Well I’ll be damned...
Her long hair was pinned up today, leaving no trace of the sex kitten that had left his condo days ago with smudged makeup, just-fucked hair, and covered in his come.
He thought back to that night, and tried to recall her mentioning anything beyond how much she loved fucking his cock, but nothing came to mind. Especially nothing along the lines of what she did for a living. Hell, he hadn’t even known her name, hadn’t bothered getting her to repeat it when it had gotten lost in the noise on the dance floor the first time she’d said it.
Evan stood, clutching his portfolio, and cleared his throat. “Ms…Spencer, is it?”
Her lips tipped up at the corners, making him think of the way she’d looked at him right before those pouty lips had wrapped around his dick.
“Yes, that’s right. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Kelman is waiting in his office.”
As she walked down the hall ahead of him, he noted the way her hips swayed from side to side and cursed his bad fucking luck. How the hell was he supposed to sit through an interview, one he was determined to nail, across from a woman he had nailed. Repeatedly.
He took a fortifying breath and followed behind Ms. Spencer. After pushing through the door she’d come from, she held it open like an invitation. Then she aimed a smile at him that could only be construed as professional if the glint of fucking
knowledge in her eyes wasn’t added in.
Evan knew she was playing with him.
Steeling himself, he matched her smile as he walked by her and into the room. He could play that game too.
“You must be Evan,” a jovial voice called out.
He watched a stocky man with thinning, grey hair come around the massive mahogany desk to greet him. A limp marred his gait but didn’t diminish his enthusiasm as he reached out to shake Evan’s hand. His grip was strong, contradictory to his appearance, and it rubbed against the cuts on his palm from last night’s exploits. He’d probably need a fucking tetanus shot later.
“Mr. Kelman, it’s nice to finally meet you.” Time to lay it on thick. “You’re a legendary name in this business.”
With a wink and a hearty chuckle, Mr. Kelman leaned in. “Oh, no need to blow smoke up my ass, son, but thanks anyway. And call me Cledus.”
“Sir?”
He slapped him on the back. “Nah, I’m just kidding. That was my ex-father-in-law’s name, may the bastard rest in peace. The name’s Bill.” He motioned to the casual sitting area in front of him. “Have a seat, would you?”
Evan glanced across at Blon—Ms. Spencer, who was seated in one of the chairs that circled an elaborate stand featuring a wooden globe on top of it. When he saw her looking fondly at the old guy, he moved to take the empty seat on the far side.
Anyone this fucking happy, especially so early in the morning, made him wary.
“So I see you’ve met Reagan. She’s a real firecracker, so you better watch out.”
Reagan. So that was her name. Firecracker? Yeah. So he’d fucking noticed when she had gone off with a bang between his sheets.
“Thank you for the warning, sir.”
“Bah with the ‘sir.’ Call me Bill. Can I get you a drink?” He walked over to the globe and lifted the top half open, revealing a bottle of scotch and assorted glasses.
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