Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
The nape of her neck when I bathe her. The feel of her hair when I braid it. The feel of her mouth when I kiss it, when I fuck it. The feel of her pussy when she comes around my dick.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck, the feel of her sweetheart pussy when she flutters around my cock.
I could live in her pussy.
In fact, I do live in her pussy all night. I sleep with my dick in her.
It’s just something that I have to do.
It’s a need I can’t explain.
A need to not be separated from her.
Not yet.
And that’s the problem.
“Are you going to take your turn?”
I get pulled out of my thoughts by Homer’s voice and remember where I am: at The Horny Bard in Bardstown. One of my least favorite hang outs. Homer’s too actually so we’ve found ourselves a quiet spot, away from the crowd, and have a chess board between us.
I think we both like it because it requires minimum talking and structured thinking.
“Sorry,” I say, rubbing my temples.
“Worried about the game tomorrow?” Homer asks, settling back in the chair.
We arrived back in New York a few days ago because this is it.
We made it.
We’re playing the championship game and this year, it’s happening in New York. The last few days have been grueling with practice and meetings and strategies and brainstorming late into the night. But today we’ve got a day off because tomorrow’s the big day and we all need it to decompress.
“No,” I reply.
Because that has always been the goal.
To not worry. To not stress or get involved.
Which is why I stayed in soccer despite not caring for it.
Homer eyes me curiously but accepts my answer with a nod. “Okay.”
I sigh again and confess, “I don’t really like soccer all that much.”
I expect the whole bar to stop talking.
I expect them to stare at me in disbelief.
I know it’s all very dramatic but what I’ve revealed is also pretty dramatic: the fact that me, a Thorne, isn’t really interested in something that’s our legacy. Something that I trained for my entire life. Something I chose to do for the rest of my life as well.
But it is what it is, and it is the truth.
Much like I confessed my biggest secret to Conrad, this one brings me relief as well. Just for the record, Conrad hasn’t looked at me differently since I told him about my issues. He treats me like he always did, like his brother, his right hand, a man that he can trust. I don’t understand how he could do that after knowing what I am.
Anyway, I don’t know if I should’ve sprung it on one of my good friends out of nowhere though. While it’s not a random confession for me—something about keeping secrets from her is taking its toll on me now—it may seem like to him.
This time Homer keeps eyeing me for a long time. Then, “Well, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.”
I give him a look. “Is that all you’re going to say to me?”
“What else do you want me to say?”
I settle against the back of the chair as well. “I don’t know, how about, what the fuck or this is unbelievable or how the fuck do you not like soccer when you’ve dedicated your entire life to it.”
Homer settles himself further in the seat, sprawling his thighs, smoothing his suit jacket. “You can absolutely not like things that you’ve dedicated your entire life to. I don’t like my job, my company that I was groomed my entire life to take over either.”
That gives me pause.
Because I thought he did.
Because that’s what he’d talk about back in high school. He’d talk about going to business school, taking over his father’s company one day. He was pretty fucking jazzed about it. He quit soccer for it too.
“You,” I begin carefully, “don’t like working for your company.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No.”
“So why do you do it?” I ask.
“Why are you in soccer if you hate it?” he asks back.
Because I’ve got a shitty father with anger and addiction issues who used to beat our mom and often times our big brother. Because I got that gene from him and I don’t want to be. So I try to lead a life away from all stimulation and excitement lest I can’t handle them. I try to lead a life of safety and control lest I succumb to temptation and become like him.
And because soccer was the only way to stay close to my family. The family that I couldn’t stay close to any other way.
Anyway, since I can’t say any of these things, I simply stare at him.
And he stares back.
And a look of mutual understanding passes between us.
I guess we both have our secrets.
Then, he goes, “So where’s your head at, if not on the game?”