Sex Addict

by Brooke Blaine

  “So fucking greedy,” he murmured against her other cheek before biting that one at the same time he slid a second finger inside her.

  As she rode his fingers, he licked a trail up her body—her ass, her hips, her lower back, following her spine all the way up to her neck, where he gently nipped the skin with his teeth. “How can someone so naughty taste so fucking sweet?”

  Reagan moaned, and her hand left the headboard to grab his free one, wanting to feel his strong touch on her breast while his fingers moved inside her. Her head fell back on his shoulder, and his hand moved from between her thighs before replacing it with the tip of his cock, teasing her swollen lips.

  “Yes,” she said, breathless, and impatiently pushed back against him. “I thought you were gonna give it to me. Fuck me, Ev—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, he shoved hard inside her, causing her to cry out and brace herself with both hands back on the headboard. One of his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her flush against him, while the other pinched her hardened nipples with every thrust he made.

  Reagan bit down on her lip, trying to hold back the scream she felt building inside her, and every time his cock slid out of her body she felt her pussy tighten around him in an effort to make him stay.

  Evan placed his mouth to her ear, and as his tongue flicked her earlobe, she took a hand from the frame and reached down to stroke her clit. She was so close she could feel her knees trembling with every powerful drive of his body into hers, and when he whispered in her ear, “Your cunt is practically strangling my dick, Reagan,” she felt a wicked smile tug at the corner of her mouth.

  She dipped her fingers lower, and this time when he pulled out of her, her fingertips brushed the underside of him, making him groan in her ear.

  “Fuck,” he said, and rammed back into her before rasping, “Use your nails.”

  Knowing him as well as she did, Reagan wasn’t shocked in the least that he wanted the sting of pain with his sex—hell, right then so did she—so this time when he pulled out of her she used her nails on him as requested.

  “Yes,” he groaned, and then fucked into her once more. “Again.”

  She repeated the move, and continued until he picked up the pace and she could no longer support herself with one arm.

  Grasping the headboard, she felt his hands move to her waist and his lips leave her ear as he started to plow into her. One of his hands smoothed up her back to her shoulder, where he gripped and held her in place right before her pussy tightened around him and her orgasm hit, causing her to scream his name so loudly it was likely her neighbors heard.

  But he wasn’t done, and when she was left panting, he pulled out of her and turned her around.

  “On your back.”

  Without hesitation, she lay down, the images beneath her now sticking to her damp skin, and he moved a little ways down the bed, rolling the condom off. Once she was in place, he shifted between her thighs and reached down to dip his fingers in her juices.

  Reagan felt her mouth part on a sigh at the touch to her sensitive flesh, and watched as he wrapped his drenched fingers around his cock and started to stroke himself. He looked at her face intently as he pumped his cock through his tight fist.

  She opened herself wide and continued to watch, enraptured by the rawness of the moment. He was a man desperate for release, and she wanted to be the one to give it to him.

  The muscles in his arms bunched, and the corded veins on his neck stood out as he gritted his teeth and, with a shout, came spectacularly all over her stomach and breasts.

  As he looked down at her, he ran his fingers over the sticky fluid on her body and then gave her an arrogant-as-hell smile.

  Right then she knew that, regardless of what her mind was telling her, she’d continue to push those warnings aside to indulge in Evan James—her own guilty pleasure.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SHE’D WOKEN UP draped across Evan’s chest with his arms wrapped around her. It should’ve terrified her. She never brought a man back to her place, much less had a sleepover.

  But there he’d been—his warm skin under her cheek and the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling her back to sleep. Her first thought upon waking had been the realization that she hadn’t had a dream. Or a nightmare.

  Probably because he is both of those things all tangled up in my sheets.

  Reagan had lingered there awhile, letting herself imagine that this was a common occurrence. That he was hers, that she always woke up curled against him. His face looked so peaceful as he slept, and she lay there letting her fantasies take over.

  But as the rising sun began to filter through the curtains, reality set in. She couldn’t let herself get too attached, but she feared she already was.

  He’d slept awhile longer, and she’d quietly gotten up to take a shower, fully expecting him to be gone when she got out. To her surprise, not only was he still there, but he was half naked in his pants from the night before, and standing in her kitchen casually sipping coffee.

  With only a towel wrapped around her, she walked out, and just like last night, his eyes raked over her. She eyed the mug in his hand and the one he’d set out on the counter for her.

  “You made me coffee?”

  “Well, I couldn’t drop the ball even on a weekend, now could I?” He grinned at her before lifting the mug back to his lips. She let her eyes trail over his bare chest and ripped abs, and when she got to the unbuttoned pants, she quickly brought them back up to his.

  Jesus, he’s even sexier with morning stubble.

  She made her way over to the counter, still holding her towel in place, and poured some of the fresh brew into her cup. Turning back around to face him, she said, “You never fail to impress, Mr. James.”

  “You don’t need to hold that,” he said, eyeing the firm grasp she had on the top of her towel. “I wouldn’t complain if it happened to fall down.” He set his mug down and walked over to her before placing his hands on the counter on either side of her.

  And suddenly, she was nervous. He was too close, too nice, too…fuck, too mouthwatering. She hadn’t been expecting this version of Evan after their night together, and some part of her knew that if she let her guard down now, she’d never recover from the inevitable letdown.

  She cleared her throat and said, “Well, I’ve got somewhere to be, so it’s probably best if I keep this on.”

  “Ah.” He nodded but then leaned into her neck and whispered, “I’ll let you make it up to me another time. I want you wet and just like this. Because you’re sexy as fuck in that towel.”

  He pushed away from her then and winked before going to get dressed, and she quickly threw on a pair of jeans and a tank top before taking a seat on the barstool to watch him.

  As he shrugged into his white button-up, she realized how his body had changed over the last couple of months. He’d been muscular before, but his shoulders were broader now than she remembered, and his abs more defined. Damn, but she wanted to say fuck it and push him down on the bed to have her way with him again. If she did that, though, she wouldn’t stop.

  After he picked up his jacket, he sauntered over to the door, and she followed to see him out.

  “You know, there is just one thing that’s been on my mind this morning,” he said, turning around to face her.

  “Besides me in my towel?”

  “Mhmm,” he murmured, and took a step closer so she had to look up at him. “In our haste to…eat dessert, I didn’t get something I really wanted. I didn’t get my goodnight kiss, Reagan. And I’d really.” He leaned toward her. “Really.” Closer. “Really like one before I go.”

  Before she could think twice, she had him pushed up against the door with her mouth on his.

  His lips parted immediately, and she slid her tongue inside. She wasn’t about to tease him this morning, because God knew if she did that she would only drive herself more fucking crazy.

  No, best to go for the kill.
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  Her nails clutched at his shirt as the coffee flavor hit her taste buds. He groaned and brought his hands up to her cheeks, holding her head in place as he tangled his tongue with hers and destroyed any brain cells she had left after last night.

  Evan James sure knew how to pack a punch when it came to a kiss.

  He wasn’t timid or shy, he was a man who was confident in what he was doing—and there was nothing sexier than someone who knew he could have you orgasming from a look or kiss if he wanted you that way.

  Knowing she needed to pull back, to somehow regain the upper hand, Reagan pushed away from him, but not before letting out a soft sigh when his teeth grazed over her bottom lip.

  “There,” he said as he drew a thumb down her cheek to her chin and then gave a light squeeze. “Now I can go about my weekend knowing my date was thoroughly pleased with her evening.”

  Reagan stared up at him and couldn’t find one thing to say as she tried to fight off the arousal he’d once again ignited. But as he stepped around her and opened the door, she couldn’t help herself from turning to see him go. As he made his way to the staircase, he looked back at her and gave a wink, adding, “Very fucking pleased,” and she knew he was right—and so did her traitorous body.

  * * *

  AS FAR AS Saturdays went, this one was fairly typical. She met up with Crystal at her apartment for brunch to catch up on anything that may or may not have happened Friday night.

  In her case, what had most definitely happened Friday night.

  She’d practically sped over to Crystal’s place, needing to tell someone all the dirty details. But first, Reagan knew she had some explaining to do. Armed with mimosas and a quiche from her favorite corner bakery, she’d turned up at Crystal’s condo with a guilty conscience and a need to unload it. But she also knew in the back of her mind that this was only the condensed version of the truth.

  She wanted reassurance in what she was doing. She needed to know if she was crazy for letting Evan near her again when she didn’t do repeats, and, as usual, her friend had told her straight up—yes, she fucking was, but if he was hot…throw the fucking rule book out the window.

  Yeah, really helpful, Crystal…

  The mimosas had helped, though, and she was feeling pretty damn good as she sat in the back of the taxicab later that evening, watching the people on the streets as they passed by. Maybe Crystal was right—what did it matter about rules and repeats if you were really into someone? If you couldn’t stop thinking about them, then why should you care if you’d been there and done that before?

  With a smile, she leaned back in the seat and thought it was actually a pretty damn good reason to repeat. And Evan did seem interested in pursuing whatever this was between them.

  Hmm…maybe…

  “Excuse me,” she said to the cab driver, and when he glanced over his shoulder, she thought for a second, Am I really going to do this? Before she could change her mind, she rattled off Evan’s address.

  As he changed direction, she sat there trying to calm herself down, but just like those times when she’d known Rocky would be coming to their house to visit, her heart was hammering in her chest.

  Christ, I feel like the same kid with a crush all over again.

  She smiled, thinking back to those days, and wondered if Evan would remember the young girl who’d watched after him with a dopey smile. When he’d mentioned last night that she reminded him of someone, she’d had the insane notion he’d figured it out, but he’d soon pushed it aside and hadn’t brought it up since. So perhaps it was wishful thinking on her part that he’d somehow pieced it all together and realized they were supposed to meet again.

  God, what kind of sap am I. She laughed at herself as the cab turned on to Evan’s street.

  As the car slowed to a stop by the curb, she saw Evan striding out of his building and getting into his SUV.

  For a moment, she hesitated. Half of her figured he had plans and she should probably go home, but the other half guessed that he was probably heading out to a bar to unwind, like he had been lately, and maybe he’d like a little surprise to take home later.

  “Could you follow that Range Rover, please?” she asked the driver. Realizing how stalkery that must sound, she said, “If you don’t ask questions, I’ll tip you extra.”

  The man made a zipped-lips gesture and waited for Evan to pull onto the street before following a few cars behind. He kept pace with him, even through the busy Saturday night crowd, and continued to follow as the brightly lit high rises faded behind them and the streets became darker and less populated.

  “Hey, uh, lady,” the cabbie said, glancing at her in his rearview mirror. “You want me to keep going?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Eh. Not such a great neighborhood for a looker like you.”

  Glancing out the window again, she noticed the buildings were a bit more run-down, and the streetlights seemed to flicker like a bad reception.

  “I’m sure it’s just a shortcut,” she murmured half to herself, wondering where the hell Evan was headed.

  The man shrugged and kept driving, leading them down even further into an area that, in the pit of her stomach, Reagan knew couldn’t mean anything good. She felt a gnawing unease, and she shifted restlessly in her seat, hoping like hell that any minute now, Evan would turn on to a main street, or head back to his apartment.

  “Lady, I don’t think you want to go down this road.”

  “It’s just a road.”

  “Wellll,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “None of my business, but you’re followin’ this guy, and I don’t think you’re gonna like what you see.”

  “I’m not paying you for advice, so please just drive the fucking cab,” she snapped, her anxiety taking over.

  Fuck, this was a bad idea. She knew it, but she couldn’t stop now. She had to know.

  Her gut churned as she watched Evan’s SUV slow to a crawl up ahead and pull alongside a curb where a group of women were gathered. Every one of them that she could see wore skintight dresses that couldn’t even really be called that—scraps were more like it. Even in the dim light, she could see the pounds of makeup on their faces and their motivated expressions at seeing a high roller pull up to their curb.

  A woman stepped forward from the back then, almost as if she was called, and Reagan’s blood went cold. Long, dark curls spiraled down her back, and unlike the others, this one didn’t look the part of a skanky prostitute. Her heels were every bit as high as the others, but her dress was less revealing, almost as if she were going to a bar instead of working a street corner. Evan’s window went down, and the woman bent over, letting her elbows rest against the side of the car.

  Reagan’s heart sank as she watched him finger one of her curls as they talked, and the nausea she’d felt pooling in her stomach made its way up her throat. She tried to fight it back, not wanting to open the door and be sick, exposing herself to Evan and his fucking whore.

  Taking a deep breath through her nose, she bit out, “Go,” and the driver had enough sense not to comment or ask questions as he u-turned in the middle of the street and sped away.

  What an idiot I am, she thought as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to rid herself of the images burned inside her eyelids. What a goddamn fool.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IT WAS OFFICIAL. Reagan had shut down.

  As soon as she’d arrived home Saturday night, she’d turned her phone off, crumpled into a ball on her couch, and stayed there until Monday morning. There was no way she was ready to face leaving her apartment yet, so after calling Bill and giving a few pitiful coughs, she hid under blanket and tried to sleep away her reality.

  When the sun rose on Tuesday morning, Reagan finally crawled her way to the shower, hoping she could wash away her thoughts of Evan as easily as she could the dried trails of mascara down her cheeks. The hot water was invigorating, and afterward, she even managed to eat a few bites of toas
t, though she chose not to make any coffee, since it reminded her of Evan standing there in her kitchen casually, as if he belonged there.

  Maybe she’d switch to tea.

  Her bed was still as they’d left it after their wild night, Polaroids strewn across the rumpled sheets, and the scent of him on every fucking inch. She grabbed at the pictures, fully intending on throwing them in the trash bin and lighting every one on fire, but one photo stopped her.

  Evan was sitting on her bed, looking up at her as she straddled herself over him, and the look on his face was so hungry, so…reverent. Holding it up closer, she wondered how she’d missed that hint of vulnerability from him underneath the sex-god exterior. He was looking up at her with an expression more than lust, and that made her heart ache.

  Why did he have to fuck it all up?

  Not quite able to let go of the photo, she walked over to her nightstand and stuck the film in between the pages of a hardcover novel and then turned back to face her bed. She ripped the sheets from the corners, gathered them into a ball, keeping the Polaroids inside, and then went to grab a trash bag.

  After stuffing the material inside the plastic, she tied a double knot around the end, as if that would help keep the memories from escaping the confines. But it was no use; that explosive night was etched inside her mind for all time—unfortunately, so was the image of what came after.

  Goddamn him.

  She kicked the bag into the corner of her room and stared at her now empty mattress.

  She never should have invited him here. Not to her home, not to her bed, and not inside her fucking heart.

  The worst part of it all, though, was the fact that she had no one to blame but herself. Evan had never lied to her when it came to telling her who he was. He’d told her several times over that he was no good. He was in therapy for his problems, for fuck’s sake.

  But no…like a stupid moron with a savior complex, I’d thought my magical pussy might change that.