I hadn’t gotten hard since getting myself shot. Not until this morning…with her.
My cock thickened as arousal kindled in me.
I hadn’t let myself think about it. After all, what kind of an asshole prioritized the function of his dick over his mental health? So I’d buried the worry and pretended everything below the belt was just tired or bored or whatever the hell dicks got.
But put Lina Solavita on her knees in front of me and my fantasies came to life. I thought about the feel of her hips under my hands. The curve of her ass as I pulled her into me. Desire had me by the throat and balls. It was dragging me out of the dark and into the fire. Toward her.
I couldn’t help myself. I needed more.
Bracing one hand on the tile, I gripped my engorged shaft with the other and bit back an oath. The contact was both a relief and a disappointment. I wanted it to be her hand, her mouth wrapped around me. My hand in her hair guiding her as she got on her knees for me and made me human again.
Her surrender would make me feel powerful, strong, alive.
I’d feel guilty about the fantasy later, I promised myself. Just a few strokes to make sure that I was still whole, that everything still worked. A few strokes and I’d turn the water to cold.
Imagining those full lips opening, welcoming me inside, I dragged my tight fist up to the crown as water hit the back of my head. My grip forced moisture to well up and out of the slit. Imagining her eager tongue sweeping out to taste it, I stroked roughly down to the root.
“Fuck,” I muttered, fisting my free hand against the tile.
This was wrong. But it felt so fucking good and I needed good.
Helpless, I imagined yanking down the scoop neck of that little cropped sweater to find her braless, her nipples hard points begging for my attention even as she worked my dick with her mouth.
My hips jerked forward as if they had a mind of their own, thrusting into my fist.
“One more.” Just one more stroke and I’d stop.
Except in my fantasy, Lina wasn’t on her knees anymore. She was straddling me. That wet heat from her pussy protected only by a useless strip of silk. My mouth was at her breast. I swallowed hard, thinking about taking one of those dusky pink peaks past my lips and sucking.
My hand had forgotten about the one stroke limit and was moving in swift, mean jerks up and down my shaft. Hips pumping in time, I felt a heaviness in my balls that I knew wasn’t going to go away by fucking my hand. But that dark desire was better than the void.
I imagined dragging the silk of her thong to the side, gripping her hips, and thrusting home.
“Fuck yes, angel.”
I could almost hear her indrawn breath as I filled her. I slammed my other fist against the tile. Once, twice.
I was way past stopping now, my fist a fucking blur as it serviced my grateful cock.
I’d lick and suck her other nipple to a pebbled point while my hands dragged her hips up and down on my shaft. While she clung to me inside and out. While she needed me to make her come.
“Nash.”
I could almost hear her breathe my name as it built between us. As her sweet pussy got tighter and tighter around me.
I could see those brown eyes go glassy, could taste the velvety peak of her nipple against my tongue, could feel the painful clench as her greedy little muscles locked down on every inch of my shaft.
“Angel.” I punched the wall again.
She’d come hard and long. The kind of orgasm that would leave her limp enough for me to pick her up and carry her to bed afterward. The kind that would give me no choice but to follow her down, emptying myself inside her. Marking her as mine.
But instead of the release I chased, I found something else.
My vision tunneled, the sound of the shower dulled as blood roared in my ears. My heart thudded wildly in my chest as the band of tension tightened. I released my cock and dragged in a shaky breath, fighting the pressure, fighting the wave of terror that crashed over me.
“Fuck. Fuck,” I rasped. “Goddammit.”
My knees buckled and I managed to lower myself into the tub.
Still hard. Still wanting. Still afraid. I put my hands on my head and knelt under the stream of water until it went cold.
SIX
THE MIDDLE OF A PISSING CONTEST
Lina
The Knockemout Public Library was housed across the hall from the police department in the Knox Morgan Municipal Building, a name that was the source of endless entertainment for me.
I snapped a picture of the bold, gold lettering and fired it off in a text to the man, the grump, the legend himself.
Knox’s response was immediate. A middle finger emoji.
With a grin, I put my phone away and headed inside.
The building had been largely funded by a hefty “donation” that came from the lottery winnings Knox had tried to force on Nash. It was, in my opinion, an expert-level “fuck you.”
Apparently, it had also driven a wedge between the brothers, one that had been reinforced by inherited stubbornness and subpar family communication.
Not that Knox and I had shared any heart-to-hearts in all our years of friendship. We kept things light, didn’t burden each other with the heavy stuff. Didn’t try to bring things into the light for useless examination.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how you made a relationship last.
No burdens. No emotional baggage.
Keep your needs few and your quality time fun.
With this in mind, I made a specific point not to peer through the glass into the police station. I wasn’t prepared to make small talk with the chief of police mere hours after hearing him bringing himself to climax in the shower one not-so-soundproofed wall away.
Just thinking about it had my cheeks heating, my downtown fluttering.
I’d never stood at a sink brushing my teeth for that long in my life.
One thing was certain, Chief Morgan was a ticking time bomb. And whoever this Angel was, I hoped I wouldn’t have to hate her.
I headed into the library. It was busier and louder than I expected. Thanks to Drag Queen Story Hour, the children’s section had the energy of a preschool at snack time. Kids and adults alike listened with rapt attention as Cherry Poppa and Martha Stewhot read about diverse families and adopting pets.
I stayed and listened for an entire book before remembering I was on a mission.
I found Sloane Walton, librarian extraordinaire, on the second floor in the stacks arguing about something bookish with the elderly yet fashionable Hinkel McCord.
Sloane was unlike any librarian I’d known. She was a petite spitfire with lavender-tinted platinum-blond hair. She dressed like a cool teenager, drove a souped-up Jeep Wrangler, and hosted a monthly Booze and Books Happy Hour. From what I had gathered, she had single-handedly turned the failing Knockemout Public Library into the heart of the community through grit, determination, and a number of grants.
There was something about her that reminded me of the nice, cool girls in high school. I’d once been a member of that exclusive club.
“All I’m saying is give Octavia Butler a try. And then come back with apology flowers and tequila because you’re dead wrong,” she told the man.
Hinkel shook his head. “I’ll give it a try. But when I hate it, you need to deliver one of them loaves of sundried tomato bread.”
Sloane stuck her hand out. “Deal. Good tequila. Not ‘I stole this crap from my parents’ liquor cabinet for the high school bonfire’ tequila.”