Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
SinnerThree: Then we wouldn’t be sexually compatible. But I have a feeling you might be. Into it, that is. Or at least you’re more open to it than a birthday 3-way implies.
I look down at my crotch, where my boxers are already getting tight. And it’s pretty hard to argue the point. It’s pretty hard, period.
SinnerThree: Picture this: I’m behind you. My hand is wrapped around your rock-hard dick. And I’m jacking you while I’m drilling you.
I can’t even swallow anymore—my mouth has gone from dry to completely arid. It feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton. Every word he’d just written sent a bolt of lust down my body. I can picture it. And he’s right. I think…I think maybe I do want to know what that’s like.
But that’s not all I want, and although my fingers are trembling as I type, I manage to make my needs clear.
LobsterShorts: That does sound tempting. But so does the opposite—me drilling you while you come in my hand. So, naturally, my scientific brain kicks into gear and inquires: which option would feel better? My solution is, let’s try both.
That’s all a hundred percent bravado. I’m pretty far over my skis right now. I don’t proposition men for sex. But I had to try it on. Typing it out makes it seem even more real. It takes me one step closer to the edge. And I wonder if I really have the balls to jump off. Or if I’m all talk.
God, I like the idea, though. I like it more than I ever let myself like it before. What would Annika think of me right now?
Annika! The reminder of her is once again jarring. What the hell is happening here? The conversation began with Sinner asking what Annika likes in bed, and somehow turned into the two of us discussing banging each other.
I draw a deep breath, trying to digest that, just as a response finally comes through.
SinnerThree: Since this is probably just a scientific hypothesis, I’ll agree to a deal. First time? I’d get your ass. If there’s a second time? You’d get mine.
He’s right. This is all just smack talk, anyway. If I ever meet SinnerThree, the night will be all about Annika.
So why is that so difficult to remember when I’m talking to him?
My cock is stone-hard in my shorts. I absently pass my hand over it, and my balls begin to throb.
GTG, I type. It’s getting late.
SinnerThree: Uh huh. Feel free to review my pics while you’re relieving some tension in a few minutes.
Christ.
LobsterShorts: Get out of my head.
SinnerThree: It’s not your head that I want. Sleep tight and dream of me, baby. Or sea slugs.
The green dot beside his icon winks off.
I set down my phone. And then I slip my hand past the elastic of my boxers. And I do the thing that guys do when they need release. And I try not to think too much about why I need it so badly.
It Gets Messy
Luke
It’s another brutal week of school assignments and work. Those extra bartending sessions are killing me. But at least my Dance-off plans are shaping up nicely.
Unfortunately, the engine on my bike is making a rattling sound whenever I turn at an intersection. It might just be that the chain needs adjusting, but all my tools are in my mother’s garage.
That’s how I find myself stopping by there on Sunday, the way Mom asked me to. Besides, free food is free food.
Sitting at our small table beside my brother Joe isn’t easy, though. Did it always feel this crowded in here? And the only one talking is Mom. Joe just shovels in the food and nods whenever he thinks he should.
It’s not a bad strategy, really.
Joe leans back in his chair like a king as my mother scoops another portion of homemade mac and cheese onto his plate. “There’s more deviled eggs,” she clucks, offering him that dish, too.
Swear to God, the whole time Joe was in prison, my mother paced our house, worrying. But she wasn’t asking herself, “Why would my boy turn out to be a criminal?”
Not our mom. She was wondering if he was getting enough to eat.
She doesn’t offer me seconds, and I have too much pride to reach for the dish. So I drain the water in my glass and ask to be excused. “I need to open up the garage and find a wrench, okay?” I push my chair back.
“Wait!” she says. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you our news.”
I pause, wary. “Okay. What’s up?”
“We’re starting a handyman business!” she announces, clapping her hands. “I’ll do all the bookings. Joe will go out and do the repairs.”
Holy shit. Because everyone wants to give a felon access to their homes?
It takes colossal willpower to avoid speaking my mind. “That’s great, Ma. Could be good for both of you.” And it’s true that Joe can’t easily find work. If you check that box on an employment application—convicted felon—nobody ever calls you back.