Matchmaker - Chapter 6 #2
When I was growing up, my favorite place to be at my house was the kitchen. It was warm and light and happy. I think I’d been chasing happiness my whole adult life. Even though I knew it wasn’t possible. So I bought a place that felt like a home.
But it still felt like I was suffocating.
I unlocked the door, switched on the lights, and tossed my keys onto the little table in the entranceway.
The place was a steal when I bought it. A complete fixer upper.
There’d been a freaking hole in the ceiling of the dining room with no explanation.
I’d been sold. And I’d been fixing it up in my spare time for the last several years. It was better when I kept busy.
But now I’d almost successfully fixed everything that needed fixing. The kitchen was brand new. The three bathrooms too. I’d sanded and refinished all the hardwood floors. I’d even managed to fix the leaky roof by myself without falling off the damned thing.
It was almost complete and I had no idea what to do next.
This place wasn’t meant for a bachelor. Somewhere along the way in renovations, it had turned into more of a family home instead of a home for just me.
I needed to call my real estate agent. As soon as possible.
When I was living in a rundown brownstone, I was fine.
But seeing the place fixed up made my chest ache.
I wasn’t a family man. And I couldn’t be here anymore.
I needed a one bedroom, one bathroom…something.
Maybe something between a family home and a soulless apartment building. I just had no idea what that was.
I walked up the stairs, past my home office and a second bedroom I never went in, and down the hall to the master.
I turned on the shower and stared at the double sinks I’d put in. A his-and-hers sink? What the hell had I been thinking? This place was worse than the empty, lifeless apartment building I used to own. There was life here. A life I wasn’t going to have.
I pulled off my Empire High football t-shirt, kicked off the rest of my clothes and stepped under the steaming hot water.
And as soon as I closed my eyes under the stream of water, I saw Brooklyn’s face. I always saw her face when I closed my eyes. She was spread out naked, tangled in my sheets. The morning sun lighting up her face.
I tried to ignore the image of her as I soaped myself up.
But I could feel myself getting hard just thinking about her.
Fuck. I pressed my forehead against the cool tile.
Yes, I saw Brooklyn when I closed my eyes.
And whenever I thought of her, I either got angry, mopey, or…
desperate to have her. I found it best to get her out of my system as quickly as possible, despite how I felt.
When I was angry, I’d go for a run. When I was mopey, I stuffed that emotion down by focusing on work. And when I wished she was beneath me?
I wrapped my soapy hand around my cock, picturing her hand instead. No, her mouth. God, her perfect little mouth. Her looking up at me innocently. Because I was the only person she’d ever sucked off. I was her first and only everything.
Seeing how hard she made me used to get her off.
The first time she spread her legs for me was because she knew how badly I needed her.
I pictured that first time. In her skirt that was too short.
In her blouse that was cut too deep, showing off the tops of her large breasts.
I’d been doomed since the first time she’d walked into Empire High.
She’s been mine before we ever spoke. And we both knew it.
I stroked myself faster, picturing her here with me in the shower. Her back pressed against the tile. Her tits against my chest. Her screaming my name.
I should have tried to think about anyone I’d fucked over the past few months instead. The girl from the café down the street. Or the random woman stalking me at my games.
But all I saw was Brooklyn. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her fingers buried in my hair. Her trying to stifle her moans so we wouldn’t be caught.
Fuck. Stream after stream of my cum landed on the tile floor. My breath was ragged as my hand stopped. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I didn’t want to leave the image of her alone in the shower. I didn’t want her to disappear.
That was the other thing about thinking about her when I was hard. As soon as I wasn’t, the mopey shit started. My arousal gave way to guilt. If I’d protected her, she’d still be here. I could still touch her. Hold her. Kiss her.
I was sick. I was lusting over a ghost. I pictured her when I was alone. I pictured her face when I closed my eyes with other women. I saw her everywhere.
I felt my stupid tears mix with the water falling down on me. I knew I needed to stop thinking about her. But I couldn’t.
I just needed to focus my energy on something else.
I’d call my real estate agent. I’d find a new place to fix up.
A smaller place with less room to grow, or just another flip.
And I’d get back to work. MAC International didn’t grow itself.
I took a deep breath as I rinsed the soap off myself.
That was the best part of owning an international finance firm. You could work all night.