Patchwhore

by Kim Jones

  “You’re thinking again.” His tenacious look hardens. Kneeling between my legs, he reaches for my underwear. My hips jerk, I hear a tearing sound, and then the head of him is against my entrance. “Let me remedy your wandering mind.” He pushes through my tight opening until the head is seated inside me. “I like it better when you moan.”

  I’m expecting some quick, deep thrust that will likely render me unconscious. But I get a slow, consistent filling—inch by inch until his hands are on either side of my head, his nose is touching my nose and he’s buried to the hilt inside me.

  It’s so overwhelming, it takes my breath. There’s no pain, but the fullness of him is so intense, my body won’t allow me to enjoy the pleasure. His mouth covers mine with a deep, yet quick kiss. When he breaks away, he pulls my lip between his teeth, giving it a light nibble. Then, as if he’s in my head, he promises, “It gets better, gorgeous.”

  And somehow, I know it will.

  Allowing me time to adjust to his thickness and length, his hips move slow at first delivering short, measured strokes that gradually awaken my pleasure points. Relaxing, I breathe deep and inhale the scent of my arousal lingering on his breath.

  Sliding my hands up his arms, I curl them around his shoulders. He’s in me. On me. Engulfing me with his heat. Burning me with his stare. Pulling me deeper into this moment, away from my erratic thoughts until my focus is only on him.

  Sooner than I thought possible, I feel my knees fall further apart. My fingers curl into his hair, and I’m asking for more. His strokes grow longer. Deeper. Working me until he’s nearly all the way out before filling me again.

  “You have the sexiest fuckin’ moans,” he growls, and I respond with another whimper that begs for something. Anything. Dragging one hand down my side, over my hip and to my knee, he pushes it toward my chest. And with the swivel of his hips, something happens.

  Sweat dampens my skin. Heat explodes from deep inside me. I don’t know where the sudden blast of pleasure came from. There was no build up. No time to anticipate or prepare. Apparently, there really is a secret sweet spot. And he just found it.

  “Harder. More. Deeper.” I realize I sound like a phone sex operator, or the narrator of a cheap porn movie, but the thought is fleeting. Because when I asked, he gave.

  He’s relentless as he pounds into me. His drive is unmerciful. I can feel my arousal as it pours from me—prompting me to clench around him to stop it.

  “Let it go, gorgeous,” Cook says, moving his lips across my jaw. Unable to fight it any longer, I let go. My entire body goes slack as I come hard around him. Wave after exhilarating wave hits me over and over. My pussy tightens around him and his cock pulses in response with every jolt of pleasure that rockets through us.

  I’m floating. Dropping. Spiraling out of control. The free fall is breathtaking. Consuming. I can feel it in my toes. Tingling in my spine. My mind is clear. Body liquefied. I’m sated. Happy. Complete. And if I can’t walk tomorrow, it will still have been worth it.

  Just like the last time Cook took me to orgasm land, it takes a moment for me to come back down to Earth. By the time I do, he has stilled inside me and is covering my face with sweet kisses. His lips brushing across my eyes. Nose. Cheeks. Across my jaw and the corners of my mouth. My stomach flutters from the show of affection. I expected the sex to be mind-blowing. The intimacy came as a surprise.

  But the moment is lost when he pulls back and gives me a smirk. “You’re a great fuckin’ lay.” I can’t help but laugh. He looks carefree and boyish as he grins down at me. But the look is a façade. There’s nothing boyish about this man.

  “And you didn’t even have to buy me dinner,” I quip, attempting to shove him off me. Regretfully, it works. He pulls out of me slowly, and I cross one knee over the other the moment he does. There’s no telling what that thing looks like. He’s probably ruined it.

  Nevertheless, his eyes drop and a sinful smile spreads over his lips. “Didn’t peg you to be a squirter.”

  My eyes widen as I feel the blood drain from my face. Is that what I am? Is that what happened? Is something wrong with me? Horrified, I grab the edge of the comforter and cover myself. If I never see him again, it will be too soon.

  Sitting up, I pull the cover tighter around me. “That’s never happened before,” I say in my defense.

  “Hey.” His cockiness is gone, replaced with a rueful expression as he stares down at me. “That’s a good thing. A really, really good thing.”

  “I’m not so sure about that… I thought only porn stars had the ability to be … squirters, as you so eloquently put it.”

  He beams. “Never fucked a porn star before. Glad you were my first.”

  I throw a pillow that he easily dodges. “Shut up.” I try to look angry, but my smile matches his.

  There’s something about his presence that makes me feel comfortable. Like I’ve known him all my life. Sure I embarrass myself every time he’s around, but it’s different with him. The moment happens, then it fades. There’s no lingering sense of shame surrounding me. If I’d have repeatedly made an idiot out of myself around anyone else, I’d be drowning myself in the bathtub to escape humiliation.

  “You got plans tonight?” he asks, disappearing into the bathroom. I crane my neck to watch him, but he keeps his back to me.

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I still owe you a steak.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask, just as he walks back in the bedroom. He’s dressed now, and when he pulls his vest over his shoulders, he looks exactly like he did when he arrived. I look like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet—pun intended.

  “Yes, I do. And I have seventeen minutes to get there.”

  “Will you make it?”

  He shrugs, but he’s confident. “I’ll have to do about one forty the entire way. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “A hundred and forty miles per hour?”

  “Yep, so if I don’t die, I’ll see you at six.” Before I can respond, he walks out of the room—his focus on his phone. Wrapping myself in the blanket, I follow him.

  “Well, do I need to do anything?”

  “Yeah,” he calls over his shoulder. “Shave your legs.”

  Maybe I’ll be drowning in the bathtub after all…

  The Plan

  Still wrapped in my blanket, I grab my phone and take a seat on the chaise lounge—the only piece of furniture in my living room. After all the excitement of yesterday, I’d completely forgotten to check my grades. Feeling a mixture of excitement and nerves, I start to log in to my student account, but the six unread text messages on my phone taunt me. Putting off my grades once again, I exit out of the screen and look at my texts.

  Is that the best you can do, Carmen?

  If you’re trying to make me jealous, it’s not working.

  A prospect? Do you even know what that is?

  Trust me, if you did, you wouldn’t be fucking one.

  You’re going to have to do better than him to get my attention.

  Never mind… You can’t do better than him. Because a real brother wouldn’t give you the time of day. If you weren’t good enough for me, you sure as hell won’t be good enough for them. Have fun with your toy, Carmen. I’m going to enjoy watching you make a fool of yourself.

  Furious, I Google the meaning of Prospect. There are hundreds of articles that answer my question, but most of them say the same thing—a Prospect is someone who’s trying to prove themselves to the club. They’re not even a “brother.”

  Great. I went into this with one goal in mind. Problem is, both times I’ve tried, I’ve only managed to do just as he said—make a fool out of myself. I simply want to make Jud pay by hooking up with his brothers, like he hooked up with my sisters. If it weren’t for the mind blowing, best I’ve ever had orgasms, the time I’d spent with Cook would’ve been a waste.

  Frustrated, angry and a little hurt by Jud’s words, I power off my phone. My day was
perfect, but leave it to Jud to go and screw that up. He still manages to ruin my life even months after he’s no longer a part of it. I hate that the wound is still fresh. I hate that I still think of him. I wish I could move on like he did. I thought I knew how.

  But my scars run too deep. As much as I hate to admit it, a part of me still loves him. I want to be angry. I want revenge. But my plan has backfired. And Jud’s betrayal was like venomous fangs piercing right through my heart. Not even “getting under” Cook could cure me from his poison.

  “Don’t you look...” Cook raises a brow, “cute.”

  I follow his gaze to my onesie pajamas that have the exact replica of Wonder Woman’s costume printed on it. It even looks like I’m wearing the boots. They may not be the prettiest, but they’re comfy. And reserved for only the shittiest or best of times.

  “Shut up,” I mutter, grabbing the bottle of wine out of his hand before leaving him at the door.

  “Heroic?” he teases, joining me in the kitchen as I work to uncork the wine.

  “I’m having a bad day.”

  He moves from behind me, placing his hands on the counter and boxing me in. Pressing his lips to my ear, he whispers, “You offend me, Carmen.” My eyes flutter closed when his tongue licks the shell of my ear. Goosebumps cover my skin as I recall the words he said last night. He’d promised to leave his mark. He didn’t lie. All day, every time I’d move, I was reminded of what we did. How it felt. How it still feels.

  “I didn’t mean…” I trail off when he presses his lips to my neck. The buzzer on my dryer goes off at that precise moment. He laughs as he pulls away from me—leaving me flustered and breathless.

  “Is that the sheets?”

  My desire vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. Scowling, I shoot him a dirty look. He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m starving,” I say, eager to change the subject. “Tell me you brought food.”

  He points to the two grocery bags on my counter. “No, I carry an armload of shit around with me everywhere I go.”

  “Smartass.”

  He laughs, taking the bottle of wine I’m still struggling to uncork. “Okay. I’ll stop being a jerk and ask the big question. What’s wrong?”

  “Everything!” I fall dramatically on the chaise and cross my arm over my eyes. But I can feel Cook smiling at me from the kitchen. “Jud texted. And he’s obviously jealous, but seeing us together didn’t do the damage I was hoping for.”

  “You know I bought this wine to cook with, but if you need it that bad…” His voice drops to a mumble. “I don’t know how you could want it after last night.”

  I shoot him a look. “It’s wine. That’s how.” I refrain from telling him I may or may not be a wino. Or how I was raised in a house with a wine cellar that was bigger than our family room.

  “Here.” He hands me a glass of red. “Not sure if you’ll like it or not.”

  “I’ll like it,” I assure him, taking a big gulp. And, of course, I like it.

  “So what makes you think he’s not that damaged?”

  As Cook starts to … cook, I power up my phone again and read him the messages. I’m expecting him to tense. Get angry. At least express some emotion that isn’t happiness as I tell him the nasty things Jud said about him. The only time he seems the least bit agitated is when I read the message where Jud claimed I wasn’t good enough for him. But even then, he just shook his head and never said a word.

  During the discussion, I’d made my way to the kitchen and am sitting on the counter next to the stove while Cook prepares dinner. Watching him work is distracting. He seems as comfortable with me as I am with him.

  “Are we friends?” I ask, curious to know what he thinks of me.

  He deliberates a moment. “You don’t know enough about me to consider me a friend.” The reality is a little unnerving. I knew absolutely nothing about this man, yet here he is. In my house. For the third time. Which reminds me…

  “You broke into my house.”

  Grinning, he shakes his head. “Hardly. I used a key.”

  I blanch. “A key?”

  “Yeah.” He grows serious a moment, abandoning the food long enough to point a set of tongs at me. “Stop leaving the motherfucker under the mat. Do you want to get kidnapped and raped?”

  Flushing, I drop my head—attempting to hide my red face. But of course, he saw it. “You’re just full of surprises,” he teases, pinching my nipple with the tongs. I swat his hand away and grab my wine—draining the glass.

  I don’t want just anyone to come in, kidnap and rape me. But role play is definitely something I’m curious about. And the thought of Cook wearing a black mask, kicking down my door, tying me up, ripping off my clothes … raping the willing. Damn you, Beatrice Small!

  In an effort to distract my dirty mind, I decide to try and find out a little more about my fantasy rapist. “Tell me something about you.”

  “Like what?” I watch as he moves fluidly from the sink to the stove. Every step is graceful and precise, even though he’s not familiar with my kitchen.

  “Is cooking how you got your name?”

  He smirks at my question. “Yeah, but probably not in the way you think.” Tossing a dishcloth over his shoulder, he leans back on the island across from me—crossing his arms and ankles.

  “Riding names are usually given to you during your prospect period. I got mine because for the first three months I did this, I was constantly fuckin’ up. As punishment, I had to do all the event cooking. Since it was summer when I started, there was something every weekend. I counted every hamburger, hotdog and piece of chicken I grilled. I never thought the number would come in handy. Then one day Ronnie asked me how many of each I’d cooked.”

  “And you knew?” I cut in. He nods. For some reason, I’m captivated. I want to hear about everything he’s done while prospecting. Or maybe I just want to hear him talk.

  “So the name stuck. It was that or hamburger.”

  I laugh, unable to imagine him with a name like hamburger. Although I’m sure like everything else, he’d wear it well. How in the hell is he single? “Why hasn’t some girl scooped you up yet?”

  “Scooped me up?”

  “Yeah. I mean, you’re funny. Smart. You cook. You’re semi attractive.” I grin at him. He grins back.

  “Semi, huh?”

  I hold my fingers up and squint at the small space between them. “Just a little.” For a few moments we just stare at each other. Smiling—waiting for something. Maybe he’ll kiss me.

  “Enough about me,” he says, pulling the towel from his shoulder and straightening. He smacks my leg with it as he tends to the steaks on the stove. “What you gonna do about Jud?”

  “I’m going to follow through on my plan.”

  “The plan … I gotta hear this, but first.” He hands me a plate and I hold it dutifully as he forks a steak onto it along with some asparagus. Refilling my glass with wine, he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve never ate a steak standing up.”

  I open my mouth. Close it. Look around the room. “Wait here.” I sit my plate on the bar and sprint to my bedroom. It takes me a minute, but I manage to clean off my night stand and drag it into the living room. Then I grab two pillows—tossing them to the floor on either side.

  Cook watches me from the kitchen, impressed by my ability to improvise. “Now you don’t have to eat standing up.” I grab my wine and plate. Taking a sip, I wink at him over the top of my glass.

  “Nope.” He winks back at me. “Now I get to eat it while I sit … on the floor.” I ignore his remark as I all but throw myself down and dig in. The food smells delicious and, no surprise, tastes delicious too. Probably because it was prepared by Mr. Delicious himself…

  “I used to live in a house on campus,” I start, feeling the need to defend my lack of luxury. “But when Jud started screwing the girls who lived there with me, it became a little awkward.”

  He looks surprised. “There was more than one?”
/>
  “Yep. Four that I know of. But I didn’t find out until after we broke up. Clarissa, the skank he’s with now, is the reason we split.”

  “So you moved out after Clarissa?” I nod. “Why would you move here?”

  I shrug. “It’s close to my job. And the neighborhood is quiet.”

  He smirks, shifting his eyes around the room. “I think your priorities are a little fucked up, babe.”

  My fork stills less than an inch from my lips. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re living in a shitty apartment and driving an eighty-thousand-dollar car.” As always, he’s amused by this. I’m not. If anything, my feelings are a little hurt and I become defensive.

  “My parents bought me that car two years ago before I came to Louisiana. They also pay over a hundred thousand dollars a year for out of state tuition, because like a fool, I chose LSU instead of a university in Georgia, just so I could be with the man I loved.” Angry tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

  “Carmen…” He tries to intervene but I cut him off. My anger mixes with confusion at his cocky grin and laughing eyes. He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.

  “So when I left my house on campus, I spent every penny I had getting this shitty apartment, and got a shitty job so I could pay for it. Want to know why? Because I’m a twenty-two-year-old, grown woman who refuses to ask her parents for help. They demand to pay for my education, and I can live with that. But I can’t let them pay for my mistakes.” I throw my napkin down on my plate and stand.

  “Sure,” I start again, waving my hands around the room. “It’s cheap and simple and doesn’t have any furniture. But it’s the first thing I’ve done on my own. And I’m not ashamed of it.” I stomp to the kitchen, plate in hand and toss it in the sink. My steak is only half finished, but I’ve lost my appetite. Besides, wine is better anyway.