Patchwhore

by Kim Jones

  “I need…”

  “Tell me what you need, gorgeous.”

  I let out a cry of frustration. “I don’t know!” This is too intense. I can’t handle it anymore. My body won’t comply. I want to let go but I can’t. My mind is waiting on something. A touch? A lick? A kiss?

  “Come.” A word…

  I break. Shatter. Combust. Explode. It’s Nirvana. Beautiful, irrefutable, uncultivated bliss. From my toes to my ears, my body sings. Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every shudder sends another tingling wave of pleasure through me. The Earth is no more. The end has come. I’m in heaven. It’s the only reasonable explanation I have for feeling this damn good.

  I want unlimited refills on whatever drug he slipped me. Then I’m going to get a Pez dispenser and pop them suckers all day long. Sex cannot be this good. He gave me ruffies. Or Mickey. Or Molly. Whatever the kids are calling it these days.

  “You alive?” Cook asks, pushing my hair back from my face.

  “Did you drug me?”

  He breathes a laugh. “Not this time.”

  “Are we in heaven?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Is my ass still in the air?”

  “My cock’s growin’ harder by the second at the sight of it.”

  I roll to my back in fear that he might want a round two. I need to catch my breath. Take a nap. Allow my vagina some time to recuperate.

  Chancing a look, I find him propped on his elbow wearing nothing but his boxers. Man, he’s pretty. I bet if I snapped a picture of him in this moment, I could sell it for thousands.

  “You’re not leaving?”

  His eyebrows raise in amusement. “I can if you want me to.”

  “No. You just always do.”

  He gives me a warm, apologetic smile. “No plans tonight.” It’s then I notice how tired his eyes are. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

  “You can stay the night.” I avert my gaze—my fingers fidgeting with my hair. “I mean. If you want to.”

  “Maybe.” It’s not a yes, but when I look up, he’s smirking. And he just winked, so maybe it is a yes.

  “I’ve got to…” My voice trails off and I flush with embarrassment and point to the bathroom. He grins and I feel my cheeks darken further.

  Clambering off the bed, I quickly dart into the bathroom, grabbing a clean T-shirt from my unfolded basket of laundry on the way. Don’t know why you’re so shy, Carmen. You’ve had your ass in the air since you got home.

  After I use the bathroom—turning on the sink so he doesn’t overhear me peeing—I pull off my boots and socks. Damn … what is up with my stinky feet? Disgusted, I toss the sweaty socks in the hamper. Then cover them with a clean towel to try and mask the scent. Don’t want Mr. Delicious finding them.

  I brush my teeth, and since he’s already seen me at my worst, I scrub the makeup from my face. Slipping on the T-shirt, I check my reflection. Then I realize I haven’t stopped smiling since I got out of bed. Is it because there’s a single, hot man in there? Or because I flew with angels not too long ago?

  Biting my cheek to contain my smile, I walk back to the bedroom. I relax my jaw and grin at the sight of him sleeping. He’s under my covers. His head on one of my pillows. He’s staying the night. I do a quick victory dance because he can’t see me with his eyes closed.

  Careful not to wake him, I climb in beside his sleeping form and cut off the lamp. Then his big arm is around my waist. He pulls me until my back is against his chest. And he whispers, “Goodnight, gorgeous.”

  I melt. Sigh. Swoon. Get a fluttery feeling in my belly. What a good night indeed.

  …And The Morning After

  He’s still here. His big, warm frame curled around mine. If my body wasn’t sparking from teeth to toes from his heated embrace, I might be inclined to pinch myself. Afraid if I move too quickly he’ll wake up and leave, I slither from beneath his arm like a snake.

  I feel good this morning. Lighter. Happy. There’s a bounce in my step. Flush in my cheeks. Eyes bright. Smile wide. And I’m totally rocking the “just fucked” look. My hair is a tangled mess. The T-shirt I slept in wrinkled and a few sizes too big. Lips still a little swollen.

  He should stay over every night.

  Famished, I skip from the bathroom to the kitchen—pausing to peek in on Mr. Delicious who is still sleeping. In my bed. Because he stayed the night. Happy dance!

  My cupboards are pretty bare. Actually, they’re very bare. The only food I have in my house is instant oatmeal. And there just so happens to be three packages. It’s a sign…

  He’s a big guy, so I’ll fix two for him, one for me and feed him with my fingers. A little reverse role play for when he sucked the BBQ sauce from mine.

  “Get a grip, girl,” I mutter, when the thought of what our children will look like flashes through my mind. “You’re still planning your wedding.” I giggle at my ridiculous conversation with myself.

  I know him being here has me in a good mood. But this feeling of greatness is a mixture of several different things. The sex. The dancing. The image of Jud turning blue, that is now permanently indented in my brain. And they all have one common denominator:

  Cook.

  Holding two steaming bowls of oatmeal, I return to the bedroom and find Cook on his back. One arm resting above his head. The other across his chest. Suddenly I don’t want oatmeal. I want to eat him for breakfast. But he looks so peaceful. After a few more long moments of staring, I begrudgingly decide to let him be and turn around, figuring sleeping in is not something he’s allowed to enjoy often.

  “Where you goin’?” His deep voice is thick with sleep. The raspy tone instantly makes my nipples hard.

  Oatmeal still in hand, I turn to face the chiseled god. “Good morning,” I whisper, drinking in his long form. That sleepy, sexy smile. Those heavy lidded, bright blue eyes. Chest bare. Thick legs spread wide beneath the covers.

  “Mornin’.”

  “I made you oatmeal.”

  “I see that.”

  I stand. He stares. I should give him the oatmeal. Cold oatmeal sucks. Then his phone vibrates. I hate that damn thing…

  “You’re up early,” he says to the caller, his body still fully reclined. His gaze still on me. “It’ll take me an hour to get there. An hour back. I should be there by two.”

  Two? It’s only ten. An hour there makes eleven. And hour back twelve. Is he spending those extra two hours with me?

  “She’s good.” Who? Me? “I’m staring at her.” Yep. Me. “No. She’ll figure it out soon enough.” I hear a laugh I know belongs to Ronnie. Cook’s smile widens. Figure out what? “See you then.” He hangs up and I fire the question at him the moment he tosses his phone to the side.

  “Nothing, babe. Not important.” His eyes heat. “Not right now.” He’s right. In this moment, it’s not important. Neither is his cold oatmeal. I have something better in mind for us. Something else he can eat for breakfast.

  “Do you have today off too?” He shakes his head. “You have to go somewhere?” He nods. I smile playfully. “You don’t gotta go to work … work. Work. Work. Work. Work. Work.”

  Smirking he raises a brow. “You gonna let your body do the work?” I’m surprised he knows the song. I’m even more surprised at how turned on I am by the possibility of doing the work. Work. Work. Work…

  With courage I didn’t know I possessed, I cross the room to him. I’m trying to go for sexy, but it’s hard considering I forgot to put the damn bowls down. I quickly set them on my night stand, take a breath and step on the bed—straddling his hips before sitting on top of him. I let out a little whimper at the feel of his rock solid cock pressed hard against my sex.

  “Good morning,” he teases, those kissable lips turning up on one side.

  “Someone’s cocky this morning.” My silly remark makes him laugh. The joke is on me though because I can feel that laugh there.

  “So, gorgeous. Can you make it clap, no hands for me?”r />
  “Well Mr. Song Quoter, you’d be surprised at what I can do.”

  “Well Ms. Cock Tease, I do love a good surprise.”

  Dragging my fingers down his chest softly, I grind my hips against him. My courage is fueled when his mouth snaps shut to stifle his groan. “If you weren’t so demanding and impatient every time we had sex, you might already know what I’m capable of.”

  “Fuck,” he says. I quirk a brow. “We fuck.” Regaining his control, he gives me a teasing smile. “Still can’t say it, can you…”

  I shrug, scraping my fingernails across his nipple. “I could. But I like when you correct me.”

  He’s yet to touch me, but I see his hands twitching to give me just what I want. “Do you like when I tell you what to do?” Yes. Hell yes. Fuck yes.

  “I always comply, don’t I?”

  “And you never disappoint.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” I meet his gaze. Shit he’s hot. I’m pretty sure he can feel how wet I am through the covers.

  “I want your sweet pussy on my face, and my cock in that smart little mouth.” My body shudders. Breath hitches. Oh how I want to taste him. Have him taste me.

  Something buzzes against my leg. I close my eyes and groan, collapsing on his chest. “I fucking hate that fucking thing. Phone … fucking phone.” He chuckles, wrapping one arm around my back to hold me in place as he searches for the phone with the other.

  “Yeah?” His hand moves under my shirt—rubbing my back in soft, calming strokes. It’s sweet and intimate and killing my sex drive. “I did.” I can’t hear the caller because his phone is wedged between the pillow and his ear. Dammit.

  He begins to answer a series of questions, or so I assume. Bored, I silently play along. “October twentieth.” Eleven days before Halloween. “Lacey, Lawrence and Laken.” Kid names that begin with the letter L. “All of them.” How many of my orgasms Cook’s responsible for. “Cheese.” Smile! His hand stills a moment, then continues. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.” Maybe we can Google it. Together.

  “I gotta go, gorgeous.” … Oh … he’s talking to me.

  “Were you answering questions?” I ask, unmoving.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was asked.”

  I roll my eyes. “Well I have some questions for you too.”

  “Ask away, but you’ll have to do it while I’m getting dressed.”

  Poking my lip out to pout, I tilt my head back on his chest and look up at him. “You can’t wait five minutes?”

  He smiles, smoothing my hair off my forehead. “Okay, gorgeous. Five minutes.”

  Beaming, I sit up so I’m straddling him once again. But the moment I gain my balance, he grabs my hips and repositions me until I’m sitting on the bed beside him. I hiss at the contact when his fingers cover the bruises he left last night. His brow furrows. I distract him with rapid fire questions so he won’t ask what’s wrong.

  “Did Ronnie wait until the last minute to send Zack to get that bike because he wanted me to dance with you?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that.”

  “Did you have something to do with it?”

  He drops his gaze back to where he grabbed me. “I don’t have any control over the Eagles or what they do.”

  “Did you eavesdrop on my conversation with the Prospect at the door? Lyle?”

  “Eavesdropping is rude.” He quirks a brow. I didn’t eavesdrop just now … I tried, but I didn’t actually do it.

  Fidgeting with the hem of my shirt, I lower my gaze. I might be stepping over some boundaries, but I have to know. “Was Jud calling you a Prospect the only reason you got mad at him?” Silence stretches on until I’m forced to meet his eyes. When I do, he’s thoughtful.

  “He deserved worse.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only one I can give.”

  I stare at him a moment before whispering, “Why?”

  “Me being a Prospect complicates things. There are some things I can get away with. Others I can’t.”

  “So defending my honor is one of those other things?” I smirk, but his expression is guarded.

  “It wouldn’t be if you belonged to me.” Is he simply explaining this to me? Or is he hinting that he wants me to be his?

  The latter has my stomach somersaulting. Heart skipping. Voice barely audible. “But I don’t … belong to you.”

  He smiles then. A hint of sadness flashes in his eyes, but it disappears just as quickly. “No, gorgeous. You don’t.”

  The mood has shifted. There’s a crackle in the air between us. To avoid saying something I might regret, or listening to my heart instead of my head—again—I attempt to lighten the conversation. “But my body does.”

  Blue eyes take in my naked legs and bare feet. “And what a body it is.” I flush, fighting the urge to tuck my legs under my shirt.

  “It’s been six minutes,” I say, trying and succeeding to pull his attention away from my lower half. He smoothly climbs out of bed giving me a great view of his back. I lean against the pillows, crossing my arms behind my head as I watch him dress. “If I had known you were going to be so easy to convince, I’d have asked you to stay longer.”

  Pulling his cut over his shoulders, he leans down and brushes his lips against my cheek. He smiles. Winks. Speaks. I’m melting again.

  “For you, gorgeous, I’d have stayed all fuckin’ day.”

  She’s That Girl: The Clubwhore

  There will be no dating this week. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be working from six in the morning until ten at night for the next seven days. I’d agreed to cover the shift months ago when an employee asked off for vacation. I needed the extra money. I still do. But now that the week is here, I’m dreading it.

  Since today is the last day I’ll have off for a while, I spend it cleaning my apartment. I also make sure to call Emily and fill her in on last night. She is only interested in the sex—no longer caring about Jud or his reaction. When I finish giving her all the dirty details, she tells me she has to get off the phone so she can masturbate.

  I also call my mom and dad to check in. They’re remodeling the kitchen, so I’m able to keep the conversation more focused on that than on me. They still ask how things are going, and I simply tell them, “fine,” before asking about the new countertops.

  By ten o’clock, I’m tired enough to sleep. But as I lay in bed, my thoughts drift to him. When will I see him again? Will I have to wait until my next date? That would be nearly two weeks. Does our arrangement only count after I go on a date? And how long will this deal between us last?

  Figuring that last one is a question that deserves an answer, I grab my phone and call him. He answers after three and a half rings—not that I’m counting.

  “Hello, Carmen.” Butterflies … his voice gives me butterflies.

  “Hello yourself.”

  “Your ears must’ve been burning.”

  “Why? Were you talking about me?” Grinning, I sit up—suddenly hit with a burst of energy.

  “I was.”

  After a moment, I ask, “Well … what were you saying?”

  “I was just telling Delilah about your hot dates with the Eagles.” My face falls at the mention of her name. Then my stomach flips when she yells hello to me.

  “Tell her I said hi,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. He repeats my message, laughing at something she says. Meanwhile, I’m dying.

  I shouldn’t be so affected by hearing the two of them together. They’re probably at the bar. Hanging out. While I’m here. It shouldn’t hurt, but damn it does. We have a deal. A monogamous understanding. He’s never given me any reason to doubt his commitment before. And as far as I know, he’s done nothing wrong tonight. So why do I feel betrayed? And the most alone I’ve felt in my life?

  He says something, but it doesn’t register. He follows it up with another laugh, and I catch the words “another one, babe.”
I guess they are at the bar. Is he buying her drinks? Drinking himself? I’ve never seen him drink…

  “Hey, Cook? I better go. I’ve got to pull a double tomorrow, so I need to get some sleep.” His voice is muffled a moment as if he covered up the phone, but I hear him clearly when he speaks again.

  “You okay, babe?” Babe? Why not gorgeous? Why didn’t he call me gorgeous when he answered? He said “Carmen.” Why does that make me want to cry?

  “Hello?”

  “Hey! I’m okay. Good. Great,” I say quickly, my hands fidgeting like crazy.

  “Did you need something?”

  Shaking my head, I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “No.” I pinch my nose to keep from sniffling. “Just wanted to say hi. I’ll let you go.”

  He’s silent a moment before giving me a simple, “Okay.”

  “Bye!” I stab at the screen—taking all my frustration out on the big red “End” circle.

  Falling back, I cover my face in my hands. I’m being ridiculous. He’s a biker. This is his life. I’m not his priority, I’m his fuck buddy. He’s my fuck buddy. So why the fuck are my feelings so hurt?

  My eyes burn with unshed tears I refuse to let fall as I curl into my pillows and mentally list all the things in my life that have me feeling blue.

  My one and only friend is back home, five hundred miles away, surrounded with other friends and her family. In the house next to where she’s probably sleeping this very moment, are my loving, caring parents. They all have someone close to them. Me? I’m alone.

  I’m three states away. The closest thing I have to a friend is a bartender who’s never even been to my house. I’m having sex with a man whose last name I don’t even know. And he’s hanging out with that girl. The Clubwhore who claims she used to get paid to have sex with men. But she probably still does. Once a whore always a whore. Right?

  My job sucks.

  My feet stink.

  My ex is a tool.

  The burn in my eyes becomes even more intense. And because I can’t afford Kleenex, I have to press my shirt into the corners to keep the tears from falling.