Track No. 11 Why Do Fools Fall In Love #4
Her tongue dragged up the underside of him, and his head tipped back, eyes shuttin’ tight, turnin' useless as one ragged breath ripped free.
“I wanna make you feel good.” She licked his tip again. “You want that, too? ‘Cause I can keep goin’, make you come.”
His cock twitched, answerin’ for him.
He didn’t want this.
Except he fuckin’ did.
Didn’t matter what came outta his mouth either way.
He’d said no and he still ended up here.
So he let his head fall back and kept his eyes locked on the ceilin’.
Guilt crawled through him for so many reasons. ‘Cause of Roger. ‘Cause he wanted to come fuckin’ bad now.
‘Cause he wanted to feel what it was like with the rest of him inside her.
‘Cause he was all fucked up inside, and none of it made sense anymore.
So when her overdone lips wrapped around his dick, wet, warm—fuck—he shut his eyes and slipped out of his skin. He tried tellin’ himself he wasn’t Andrew Harding. He was some other guy with a cock. A body. With a beautiful woman kneelin’ between his thighs. Not Andrew Harding.
Except she was workin’ him like he was Andrew Harding, and he couldn’t hide behind it. He gritted his teeth, fists clenched at his sides, tryin’ to stay still. Until he looked down once, even though he swore he wouldn’t.
His eyes landed on swollen lips easin’ down his dick, cheeks hollowin’ as if she was tryin’ to drain the guilt right out of him. And when he felt her moan buzzin’ around the head of his dick at the back of her throat, he came hard, suckin’ air through clenched teeth.
When it ended, when it was all over, he felt wrong. All fuckin’ wrong.
“Fuck—I should go,” he muttered, shakin’ his head as he stood, tucking himself back into his jeans. “That was—shit—that was—”
But before he could finish, she grabbed his wrist.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said, nails diggin’ into his arm. “You’re not goin’ anywhere. It’s your turn.”
He froze with both hands at his waistband, thumb under the button, ready to push it through—mid-breath, mid-motion, mind racin’. “What?”
A huff left her as she sank back on the couch.
“I didn’t do that for nothin’.”
It took him a second before it clicked.
She’d just sucked his dick, not ‘cause she wanted him, not ‘cause she wanted to, probably not even ‘cause she saw all those things in him. Nah. She did it to get to this moment, right here.
That wasn’t head. That was a setup.
A trade he never agreed to.
And he stood frozen, fingers still on his fly, wishin’ he felt anything other than manipulated, wishin’ he wasn’t so stupid, thinkin’ someone actually wanted him just to want him. And he stupidly gave himself to her, made himself vulnerable, broke in front of her.
And he risked his friendship for it.
What if he said no, that he didn’t want to?
Would she tell Roger? Or his moms? Would she get pissed and say he took advantage of her? She’s the one drinkin’, and he fuckin’ knew better.
His gaze fell to the overpriced rug.
His chest started closin’ up from tryin’ to keep himself together.
He could feel her eyes press into him when she said, “You owe me now.”
“Yeah. Course I fuckin’ do,” he muttered, feelin’ like he didn’t have a choice. Then he lowered to his knees in the same goddamn spot she’d just been in, the carpet still warm, tryin’ to convince himself again that he wasn’t Andrew Harding.
Nah. He wasn’t Andrew Harding at all.
He became exactly the guy she needed him to be.
A guy who’d done this before. A pussy-eatin’ god.
And this time, it stuck.
The sun was barely up by the time he returned home.
He walked across the dead grass as daylight spilled through the sky.
When he reached the front door, he walked into the cold darkness of his home and closed the door behind him.
For a second, he stood with his back to the door, still tastin’ her in his mouth, still feelin’ her lips on his cheeks from when she’d kissed him once it was all over, still hearin’ her voice in his head—this is our little secret. As if he was some sidepiece.
And he still felt the weight on his chest after she’d clasped the gold chain around his neck. “Was gonna give it to Roger’s dad,” she’d said. “Then he cheated, so it’s yours now.”
He should’ve refused, left it behind, or thrown it out the window on his way home. But he’d stood there like a grateful idiot as she put it on and wore the chain home with it tucked under his shirt so the rest of the world wouldn’t know what he did. As if it spelled out his shame in 24k.
He didn’t have the White Cement Js on his feet. But he finally had the gold chain.
He didn’t get it from the dad he never had. Or love. Or family. Or blood. Or legacy.
Nah. He got it with his cum in her throat, from a debt he then owed.
From lettin’ her see him in the most stripped-down way, before she said there was a price to pay.
It didn’t make him feel like a man.
The weight of it felt like a collar, a scar, a scarlet letter for betrayin’ himself. And ever since, he wore the thing day after day for one reason alone: he fuckin’ hated it.
It laid cold around his neck.
A promise that, from that day forward,
no one would get the real Andrew Harding again.