Chapter 15
When I wake up on Saturday morning to a slew of text message taunts from Jazz that have my half-hard cock thickening completely in mere moments, my instinct is, of course, to fight the burning arousal with every ounce of willpower I possess, just like I did last night.
I have no idea how he knows I needed a cold shower after our text exchange but, seriously, I don’t think anything should surprise me with this guy anymore.
Fuck. I need to get up and get in the shower again. Once I start moving around and focusing on other stuff this insanity that has suddenly sunk its claws into me will fade and I’ll feel normal again.
Except…I can’t move. The fact that he knew exactly how I’d feel when I read those texts and was brazen enough to call me out on it has ramped up the arousal to a level of crippling intensity and I can barely think, or breathe; and getting my limbs functioning well enough to move from the bed is out of the question.
I groan and toss my head back into my pillow, desperately trying to ignore my painfully throbbing cock.
I don’t understand it. I don’t fucking understand any of this.
It’s like Jazz is inside my head, tugging at threads I didn’t even know were there and weaving them into a pattern that only he can see.
And he’s been in there far longer than just the last couple days; this has been going on since the moment we met three weeks ago.
The solution is obvious—I need to get him the fuck out of my head.
With that resolve in mind, I shove the arousal away and force my body to move from the bed. A cold shower and a run on the High Line. That’ll be a start…
And when I hear from Jazz tonight…I’ll just ignore it. I won’t even see his texts because I’ll turn off my phone—what I can’t see can’t affect me, right?
But then my brain kicks in and I realize what a ridiculous idea that is.
I can’t be unreachable—what if one of the kids needs me?
True, they don’t call that often now they’re off at college, but you can never be too careful.
And besides, going to such extreme lengths to avoid a simple text would prove Jazz right. And Jazz is not right.
If he texts later on, I’ll be able to just ignore it because I’m a strong-willed guy and I don’t want to hear from him. It’ll be easy.
Saturday evenings at Whiskey Tango are always a lot busier than other nights, and without Gia there we were run off our feet for most of the night, so I barely had a chance to think about anything, least of all the cocky, guitar-playing asshole who seems hell-bent on destroying my sanity.
But I’ll admit it did feel a little…strange not to be on my guard for one of his inappropriate songs, or feel his eyes follow me around the bar, or sense his presence hovering nearby, or put up with him ogling my ass and brazenly flirting while I made his whiskey sour. But strange in a good way. Obviously.
It’s after three am by the time I get home, so all I want to do is crash and sleep until well into the afternoon ahead of another closing shift tomorrow.
But I haven’t eaten since I grabbed a couple chicken fingers from the kitchen at about seven, so I make a quick detour to the main kitchen and go rummaging through the fridge.
Fortunately, my brother’s had the foresight to label anything he’s made specifically for Owen—who’s been doing a ton of nightshifts in the ED lately—so I steer clear of those containers and grab one that’s marked only with yesterday’s date.
Peeking inside, I see it’s the pasta Blake was making when I got home yesterday.
My stomach growls as soon as I get a whiff of the tomato and basil sauce, and as I spoon some into a bowl I notice sliced olives and pieces of pancetta mixed in with the spiral pasta.
I really need to take Blake up on his offers of food more often; my brother’s clearly learned a ton of new skills since the last time we lived together.
I scarf the pasta down within minutes and place my bowl in the dishwasher before heading upstairs to get ready for bed.
I finally slide under the covers, letting out a soft moan of satisfaction as my head hits the pillow. I’m just reaching over to switch off the lamp on the nightstand when my phone buzzes with a text.
I let out a frustrated groan. “Fucking hell. Just ignore it, Damon.”
The phone buzzes again and my resolve to ignore it disappears. It could be Ava or Joel; what if one of my kids needs me and I’m not there because I’m too busy trying to avoid engaging in some weird insult-laden sexting thing with a guy only three years older than them?
Sexting? Jesus Christ. I mentally slap myself to shake that ridiculous thought loose. There has been no sexting between Jazz and me. There have been unsolicited texts full of taunts and innuendo, but that’s all it was and will ever be.
I sigh in resignation as I shift my hand away from the lamp, reaching for my phone instead. Even before I see the name on the screen I know I’ve made a huge mistake.
Jazz Grimsay
Did you miss me tonight dirty boy?
Did you actually do your job today? Or did you lock yourself in the bathroom again so you could fuck your hand?
I let out a groan of frustration, rubbing a hand through my hair. Why did I look at the text?
The last thing I need right now is to be reminded of how insanely far I went off the deep end yesterday. And I especially don’t need to remember anything from Jazz’s creepy ambush in the staff bathroom.
Apparently my cock disagrees, and that just makes me even more frustrated. I was supposed to put all this shit behind me.
A couple more texts come through and I grab at fistfuls of my hair in frustration as my entire body heats with a mix of dread and mortification.
Jazz Grimsay
Never mind, I already know. You didn’t even feel a twitch today, did you?
Because I wasn’t there
That’s a pure fucking coincidence. I’m not attracted to this cocky little shit. I’m not attracted to men in general, but this one? There’s just no fucking way.
Me
God, you’re so fucking full of yourself. I’m not attracted to you. You have nothing to do with this
Jazz Grimsay
I know you’re not attracted to me straight boy. But that doesn’t mean I don’t turn you on
Me
Bullshit
Jazz Grimsay
A dirty mouth for a dirty boy. Don’t you know it’s not polite to swear?
Someone’s a fan of hypocrisy…
Jesus, I don’t even know why I’m still reading these texts.
I need to just put my phone down, turn off the light, and resign myself to a night of sexual frustration.
Because there’s no way I’m fucking my hand until I come all over myself the way Jazz predicted I would in his texts this morning.
And the way my cock’s been behaving lately, it doesn’t deserve any relief right now.
But whatever resolve might have been building vanishes as a mix of shame and mortification rushes through me at the words that pop up next.
Jazz Grimsay
But I guess you’re not very polite are you? Polite boys don’t walk around in cummy jeans, do they?
Only dirty boys like you do that.
How the fuck does he even know about that? Or is he just taking a wild guess and happens to be on the money?
And why does the thought of him knowing the full extent of my shame make yesterday’s incident seem so much hotter? I need him out of my head, except…fuck, it’s starting to dawn on me that I actually like that he has this power over me. God, this is so fucking messed up.
But even more disturbing is how my body keeps reacting to the way he keeps calling me “boy.” I’m twice his age for fuck’s sake.
I have kids only a few years younger than him.
But the way he keeps using that word to diminish and belittle me is having an effect on me that I’m really not comfortable with.
Me
I’m a fucking grown-ass man, asshole. Stop with the “boy” shit
Jazz Grimsay
I didn’t see a grown-ass man yesterday. I saw a little boy who locked himself in a bathroom stall, afraid to touch his own dick
It’s so fucking hot how you can manage to be a filthy slut and a blushing virgin at the same time
I’m a what? And I wasn’t afraid to touch my dick yesterday. Just a little…reluctant.
Me
Virgin? I’ve been having sex since before you were born, kid
Jazz Grimsay
Hetero, vanilla sex
Me
And that doesn’t count?
Jazz Grimsay
Not in this world. Welcome to Wonderland
I groan in frustration and tug at my hair again.
Me
I want to go back through the rabbit hole
I’m expecting another smartass text, but instead my phone starts buzzing with an incoming call. Before I can think better than to answer, I hit the accept button and put it to my ear.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“A front row seat to the live show I know is about to happen,” he drawls in his soft, husky voice. “And to let you know there’s no going back.”
Like hell.
“There’s no show,” I grate out. “And whatever the hell this is—”
“How you’re rock hard right now thanks to a few well-placed jibes from me?” he interrupts, tone laced with amusement.
“It’s temporary,” I insist firmly, ignoring the way my face heats at his words.
“I’m not hearing a denial,” he taunts.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, letting out a soft groan. If I just tell him I’m not hard will he let it go? Of course not. Because there’s no way he’d even believe me.
“I guess that proves it then,” he says with immense satisfaction. “I turn you on.”
“You don’t fucking turn me on,” I growl.
“Your giant dick seems to disagree with you. Have you been stroking it the entire time we were texting?”
“Of course not,” I bite back.
“Ah, that’s right. Little boy afraid of his cock.”
“I am not afraid of my cock,” I growl, even as I continue to resist the need to relieve the building pressure in my dick.
“You’re just afraid of what it wants,” he drawls. “You really are a little virgin, aren’t you? You’ve never been turned on by shame and humiliation before, have you?”
“Of course I haven’t. It’s fucking messed up.”
“Well, you love getting all messed up, don’t you, dirty boy?” Jazz taunts. “Are you always such a slob when you jerk off, or did you just feel like getting your clothes all cummy at work yesterday?”
I groan and arch my body off the bed as my dick throbs painfully. “Fuck, how do you even know about that? Do you have cameras in the bathroom or something? Were you watching the whole thing?”
“Well, damn—now you’ve given me an idea,” he says with a soft chuckle.
I don’t even know why I asked the question; of course he’s not going to give me a straight answer.
“How much longer do you think you can hold out before you finally grow some balls and give that massive dick the attention it deserves,” he taunts. “It must be getting pretty painful by now…”
More like excruciating…
“Fuck, just leave me alone, Jazz,” I tell him, horrified when it comes out as a gasping plead.
“Less than a minute, then,” he says with a breath of laughter. “And I’m not going anywhere, dirty boy. I’m going to stay on the line and talk in your ear the whole time you’re rubbing your dick, right up until you come all over yourself like a dirty slut.”
“Jazz…please,” I practically beg. I can’t let him listen. He can’t be on the line when I inevitably come. And he can’t whisper his particular brand of dirty talk in my ear while I’m jerking off. It’ll just confirm his theory that I’m turned on by him; and I can’t let that be true.
“You didn’t have to answer the call,” he points out. “Or the texts. And from what I understand of modern technology, you should be able to end the call from your side.”
Fucking smartass. But it’s not like he’s wrong. I shouldn’t have fucking replied to that first text. And I definitely shouldn’t have answered his call.
“Just press that little red button and I’ll be gone,” Jazz goads. “Like magic.”
I need to hang up. It’s easy. Just end the fucking call, Damon! The button is right there.
“I know you’re not going to do it,” Jazz drawls, and I can visualize the exact smirk he must be wearing right now. “You don’t really want me to go.”
“Of course I fucking want you to go,” I grind out, my embarrassment and confusion and arousal all combining to form a state of utter frustration.
“No. You think it’s what you want. What you should want. But what you really want is to jerk yourself off while a guy half your age listens in and tells you what a dirty fucking slut you are.”
As though some kind of wire inside me is snapping, I feel my resistance crumble and I finally tug my boxer briefs down, exposing my thick, pulsing erection.
I jerk myself as Jazz whispers filthy taunts and insults through the phone, a blanket of shame enveloping me at the way my arousal is skyrocketing with every new humiliating comment or mortifying observation.
I hate this. I fucking hate what my body is doing right now. But, Jesus, it feels fucking incredible. And when I come, the orgasm is more powerful than anything I’ve experienced for a hell of a long time.