43. Ronan
“ W hat the fuck, Ronan.” I navigate my bird-shit-coated car down the lengthy dirt driveway, veering to avoid the worst of the potholes as I berate myself.
“What the fuck!” I’ve never lost control like that when it comes to my dick.
I’ve never kissed a woman like my lips had to be attached to hers for me to get off.
Is this what happens to me after months without getting laid?
And even longer without truly enjoying it?
I turn into a feral humping two-pump fuckboy?
Two-pump may be an exaggeration, though, it isn’t far off. Twenty might be more accurate.
She whispered “ Try me ” with challenge in her eyes and I snapped.
Then she stripped in record time, and I was a goner.
I couldn’t get enough of Sloane’s sweet mouth, couldn’t get my pants off fast enough, couldn’t get deep enough inside her while a condom sat untouched in my wallet. Forgotten.
I haven’t raw-dogged it since Tasha and that was intentional.
But—fuck!—did it feel incredible to unload in Sloane’s tight pussy, like the dickhead I am. Still, I fucked up. There was no conversation about expectations, about what we are, and, more importantly, what we aren’t. What we can’t be for several reasons.
I check the clock on my dash and curse. I have fifty-five minutes to get these lists in before Belinda hands me my ass.
With that in mind, I hit the gas pedal.