6. Chapter Five #2
I wish I knew why I was like this; wish that I could come up with some psychological bullshit reasoning like I wasn’t hugged enough as a kid or something, but that’s just not the case.
My family’s great. I have Claire, my sister, who despite our seven-year age gap, is more like my younger sister in spirit.
She’s the closest thing I have to a best friend here, in New York, and she also happens to be my roommate, and I don’t think we’ve ever fought in our entire lives over anything, at least not anything of importance.
My mom’s amazing, and has never not supported me in literally anything I’ve ever done, from trying out for the fall play to taking up ballroom dancing because I saw one episode of Dancing With The Stars, to my brief stint as a male underwear model last year.
I don’t think there’s anything that phases her, to tell the truth.
Though I don’t see her as often as I’d like these days, it's not because we had a falling out or anything. I’m just busy trying to keep my head above water and she’s busy traveling with her “Girl Squad”, aka twelve of her closest friends, which she’s been doing since Dad—er, Dean—died.
It’s still weird to think that he’s not my dad.
Biologically, I mean. After I found out, when I asked my mom who my real dad was, all she said was that he was an asshole and doesn’t even know I exist. But Dean, the only dad I have ever known, was one of the kindest, bravest men on the planet before cancer took him two years ago.
Which is how I found out he wasn’t my real dad in the first place.
Of all the cancers he could have ended up with—the last one anyone would expect would be bone marrow cancer.
I wasn’t a match because DNA is a bitch, and that’s how I found out the truth, which sucks.
I’m still pissed that my mother didn’t tell me the truth before I had to find out for myself.
Though she says she did it for a reason—to keep me safe or whatever—I have a hard time believing her.
So I’ve been trying to find the man who made me ever since, which hasn’t been as fruitful of a search as I’d hoped as of yet.
I wish I could blame my niche needs on any of those reasons, but none of those things are the reason I put myself into these situations; the ones where I know I’m going to end up hurt.
Hell, even moving in with Claire hasn’t helped like I thought it would, and I’m closer to her than anyone else.
I still crave the grasp of a rough hand around my neck.
I still ache to feel owned, to feel that high I only feel when I’m being used by a big, tough asshole who knows how to make me feel it for days.
I miss that blissful unraveling comfort that lingers in my muscles long after I’ve dropped.
I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about these things, especially now, but the more I ignore the monster inside of me, the hungrier he gets.
I don’t want to sound desperate, but I am.
I’ve never gone this long without a master, or a boyfriend.
And I think it’s affecting my sanity as much as it is affecting my dick.
And then… in walked Kane, like something from my darkest fantasies, come to save me from the mundanity of my virtue, from my desperation, like some dark fae prince or some ruthless mafia king in a dark and deranged version of a Hallmark movie.
You need to stick to your guns this time…
And stop reading Claire’s books because they are clearly fucking with your brain.
I put the lid on Kane’s cup and slide the heat sleeve over it, then grab his cinnamon roll—the last one in the case—and toss it into the toaster oven with the tongs so it’ll warm up.
Since he asked so sternly for it to be hot, and while I know it’s not an order like I prefer, it’s the closest thing to one I’m probably going to get, and the intrinsic desire to obey him is like second nature.
Though I don’t think I’ll be able to get the pastry as hot as he is.
God, do you hear yourself, Ryder?
Maybe I should make a point to get off tonight, let out some of this pent up frustration.
Sadly, I can’t remember the last time I had some quality time alone with my desperate dick because I’ve been working nonstop since Rebecca quit last week.
I slide Kane’s drink to him, turning away before he can see my stupid cheeks blush again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t think I’ve ever blushed this much in my life for anyone.
He pulls the cup towards him, his fingers slowly grazing mine.
Part of me feels like he’s doing it on purpose, while the sane, rational part of me tells me I’m overreacting.
That I’m projecting, looking for something that isn’t really there because I don’t know how to function like a normal twenty-six year old anymore after spending the last six months practically celibate, working sixty hours a week, and living with my sister and her girlfriend.
Okay, so Tori doesn’t actually live with us, but she’s always there, so it sort of counts.
“We close at five-thirty, just so you know,” I say, desperate to make small talk if only so I can hear that deep, sexy voice of his again and distract myself from my inappropriate dissociative fantasies as I watch him lick the foam from his lips.
Fucking hell, I really need to get laid.
Maybe I could just… browse Kinktastic later. Browsing and watching isn’t the same as getting fucked in person, so surely that doesn’t count….
Kane nods as he sips his coffee, glossing over my awkwardness, and I wait to see what he will say, trying desperately not to picture him swallowing my cream down his throat.
A low whine escapes me as I watch him drink the coffee, and I have to stifle it to not sound like a total pervert who gets turned on by watching hot guys guzzle coffee every day. Because I’m not.
He lets out a sigh as he stops, wiping the cream off his lips with the back of his hand. A little spreads into his beard, and I have to fight the urge to stare and lick it up myself.
I clamp my jaw tights, cross my arms, and try to remain as normal as possible while I wait for his answer.
Will he still find it gross? Demand his money back?
Does he know I’m thinking dirty thoughts about him right now? I hope not.
His eyebrows tighten as his jaw tenses, and for a moment, I think he’s going to tell me the coffee’s shit and that I’m a liar. But to my surprise, he nods, clearing his throat as he says, “Not bad.”
It’s like a weight is lifted off my shoulders the minute he speaks, the minute his lips turn up in the corners. Thank God.
I give him a genuine smile. “Told you. Can’t even taste the fungus.”
Kane chuckles, the sound deep and warm, which makes my insides twist.