5. Old Wounds, New Distractions #2
Anna leaned forward, elbows on the bar, voice going gentle. “When my dad died, I spent six months driving around the country. Thought if I could just get far enough away, it would stop hurting. You know what I learned?”
I shook my head.
“Geography doesn't cure grief. It just gives you new places to be miserable.”
The words settled in my chest like stones, heavy and true. I downed the third whiskey and immediately wanted a fourth. The room was tilting slightly now, sounds becoming muffled and distant, thoughts moving like they were walking through honey.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I said, sliding off the barstool and immediately regretting the sudden movement. The floor felt less solid than it had a moment ago.
“Down the hall, last door on the left,” Anna said, but her voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
The hallway was dimly lit, narrow and lined with black-and-white photographs of Harbor's End from decades past. Fishing boats, street scenes, faces of people long dead or long gone. I made it halfway to the bathroom before I noticed I wasn't alone.
There was someone else in the hallway, a man about my age with sandy hair and eyes that were too bright in the dim light. He was attractive in a generic way.
“Hey,” he said, and his voice was soft, careful, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt. “You okay?”
I should have said yes. Should have nodded and kept walking, made it to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face until the room stopped spinning.
Instead, I found myself moving closer, drawn by the warmth in his eyes and the promise of touch that didn't come with questions or expectations or the weight of shared history .
“No,” I said, and the word came out like a confession.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something clean and expensive that reminded me of hotel lobbies and people who had their shit together.
Close enough that I could see the concern in his expression, the way he was looking at me like I was something fragile that needed handling with care.
“What can I do?” he asked, and there was something in his voice that made my pulse quicken—not just kindness, but heat. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity.
Instead, I closed the distance between us and kissed him—hard, hungry, tasting like whiskey and regret.
He made a startled sound, soft against my mouth, but he didn’t pull away.
He kissed me back with the practiced gentleness that said he knew how to handle a man unraveling.
His hands hovered at my sides like he was waiting for permission.
I didn’t give it. I took.
Fisting his shirt in both hands, I walked him back down the narrow hallway.
The scent of citrus cleaner and old wood wrapped around us like ghosts, but I didn’t care.
The only thing I could focus on was the weight of his mouth, the friction of his body under mine, the heat sparking where our hips collided.
He let out a breathless noise as I pushed him against the bathroom door, fingers curling in the collar of his coat. His mouth tasted like beer and peppermint, clean and almost innocent. It made something dark twist low in my gut. I needed to fuck that taste out of him.
I broke the kiss just long enough to shove the door open and drag him inside with me. The bathroom was barely big enough for two bodies, the mirror cracked at the corner, the single bulb overhead buzzing like it was on its last leg.
Perfect .
I turned and kicked the door shut with my boot, locking it with a sharp click that felt final.
He was already breathing hard, pupils blown wide as he looked at me. “You sure?—”
“Take your fucking clothes off,” I growled, stepping into his space until his back hit the wall. “Now.”
His breath caught, and his hands moved instantly, stripping off his jacket and tugging at the buttons of his shirt.
I didn’t wait. I grabbed his hips and ground against him, my cock already hard and aching behind my jeans.
He gasped, head tipping back against the wall, giving me access to the long line of his throat.
I bit him there—hard enough to make him flinch, not hard enough to leave a mark. I wasn’t that cruel.
I was pulling his shirt off his shoulders while he worked on mine, fingers fumbling a little, distracted by the heat between us. He wasn’t drunk. Not like I was. That made it easier to push, to take.
When I had his chest bare, I stepped back for half a second and looked.
Light hair dusted his pecs, and his nipples were already hard from the cold and the rush of what we were doing.
He wasn’t sculpted, not like the models I used to flirt with in Manhattan, but there was strength in the curve of his arms, the subtle ridge of muscle along his torso.
He looked like someone who worked with his hands.
Like someone solid enough to hold the weight of a body falling apart.
I shoved him back against the sink, dropped to my knees on the grimy tile, and undid his belt in a single, practiced motion.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice trembling as I yanked his jeans and briefs down in one rough tug.
His cock sprang free—already half-hard, flushed and leaking at the tip. I licked my lips without thinking, then wrapped a hand around the base and gave him one long, slow stroke.
He twitched.
“Sensitive?” I asked, voice low, mocking.
He nodded, throat working. “Yeah—fuck, yeah.”
“Good.”
I leaned in and licked a slow stripe up the length of him, from base to tip, then swallowed him down in one greedy motion.
His hands hit the sink behind him, gripping the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
His hips bucked, and I held him in place with one arm looped behind his thigh, my other hand sliding up to cup his balls.
He moaned, long and drawn out, and the sound was filthy.
I bobbed my head slowly at first, working him open with my throat, letting spit drip down his shaft, coating him in slick. His cock throbbed in my mouth, and I sucked harder, jaw aching, hunger blooming in my chest like fire.
This wasn’t about him. It was about control. About giving myself over to something physical so I didn’t have to think about the letters I’d never read, the mother I couldn’t bring back, the man I’d screamed at like he was responsible for everything I hated about myself.
His thighs trembled.
“I’m close.” He gasped, breathless.
I pulled off with a wet pop, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Not yet.”
Standing again, I shoved my jeans down and grabbed the tiny bottle of lube I kept in my jacket pocket. Always prepared. Even in my worst moments, I knew exactly what I was doing.
“Turn around,” I said. “Bend over the sink.”
He hesitated for a second, and I caught his eye.
“Or do you want to leave?”
He swallowed, then turned. Obedient .
I slicked my fingers and reached between his legs, teasing over his hole, circling it slowly. He braced himself on the sink, chest rising and falling in sharp gasps, the mirror fogging up in front of him.
When I pressed one finger in, he groaned low in his throat and pushed back against me, eager. Desperate.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” I muttered, slipping another finger in beside the first, scissoring gently. “When’s the last time someone opened you up like this?”
He whimpered, too far gone to answer. I took that as permission and worked him open with ruthless patience. My cock throbbed, leaking against my thigh, but I held back. This wasn’t about me getting off. It was about wiping out thought—his, mine, anyone’s.
“You want it?” I asked, voice rough.
“Yeah,” he gasped. “Please.”
I slicked myself up with the lube I kept in my back pockets, lined up behind him, and pushed in with one slow, firm thrust. He tensed, then moaned, arching his back, his hands white-knuckled on the sink.
“Fuck,” I muttered. “You feel good.”
He did. Hot, clenching around me, every inch a reminder that I was still alive, still capable of feeling even if I didn’t want to.
I started to move, snapping my hips in short, hard thrusts, driving into him with a desperation I couldn’t name. The sound of skin on skin echoed in the small room, filthy and perfect. He met every thrust like he needed it, wanted it, whimpering with every grind of my cock against his prostate.
“Say you want it,” I growled, leaning over him, teeth grazing his shoulder.
“I want it,” he gasped. “God—don’t stop.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t. I fucked him like I was punishing someone, like I was trying to scrape out every sharp edge inside me and bury it in him.
His hole was leaking around me, lube and precome slicking his thighs. I reached around and wrapped a hand around his cock again, stroking in time with my thrusts.
He came hard, shuddering under me, mouth open in a soundless cry, his cum painting the sink below us. His hole clenched around me, tight and wet and perfect, and I groaned, letting go.
I came deep, spilling inside him with a shudder that racked my whole body. For one moment, there was nothing. Just heat. Just release.
We stayed like that for a few seconds, breathing hard, still tangled.
Then I pulled out gently and watched the way his hole fluttered and leaked, a mix of my cum and lube dripping down his thigh. It was obscene. Beautiful.
He reached for some paper towels and cleaned himself off without speaking. I tucked myself back into my jeans and tried not to look at the mirror.
“I should go,” he said, quiet again now. “But... you okay?”
“Eventually,” I murmured, and for the first time, it almost felt true.
He squeezed my shoulder once, a brief touch that somehow managed to convey both comfort and goodbye, then slipped out of the bathroom, leaving me alone with the fluorescent light buzzing overhead and the taste of someone else's kindness lingering on my lips.