Chapter 6
six
. . .
Aidan
Taryn is a nice girl. Sweet. She’s blond with big, doe-like brown eyes, light freckles, and the cutest little dimple. Her makeup emphasizes her pretty features, and she’s dressed in a trendy dress and cardigan.
But there’s no spark. No connection.
“I’m sorry,” I say for at least the seventeenth time in the last half hour.
“It’s not your fault,” she insists again.
Except it is. When we first met for lunch, I should have called it then and there, before we even placed our orders. I knew from the start that it would never work.
Two people sit at a table a few feet away, having what seems to be a working lunch.
The woman—drop-dead gorgeous, with long, wavy chocolate-brown hair cascading down her back—gesticulates wildly as the man sitting opposite her scribbles on a tablet.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the casual familiarity they share is palpable.
The way he looks at her, open and trusting…
I don’t form connections like that. Not with strangers. Not with women. I’m usually too on edge to relax around people I don’t know, and aside from my teammates’ partners or the team staff, I don’t spend a lot of time with women. Especially not women I might want to get to know further.
Blind dates are Hailey’s solution. It’s been two years of constant setups, and there hasn’t been a single one I’ve wanted a second date with. I’m starting to think something is wrong with me, except I know what’s wrong with me.
When I was in the minor leagues, my girlfriend told me she was pregnant. We hadn’t been dating long, but we’d always used protection. I made sure of it. Finding out was a shock to the system, and I didn’t handle it well.
But it damn near killed me when I found out the baby wasn’t mine.
I haven’t been able to be intimate with a woman since. I’ve tried. Countless times, I’ve tried. But as soon as it’s time to reach for a condom, my heart starts beating faster, too fast, and my erection wanes, and I’m left embarrassed with a wanting, willing woman in my bed.
So I stopped trying. I stopped putting myself out there. What woman wants a man who can’t fuck her? Sure, there are other ways to have sex. In theory, I could use my fingers and my mouth and a whole arsenal of toys, if that’s something she’s into.
But I can’t. My brain won’t let me. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even kiss someone without my thoughts spiraling to what if, what if, what if, and then I melt down and have a panic attack, and…
I don’t even attempt it anymore. It never works out well for me.
Why bother with all that heartache? It’s easier to be alone.
Lonely, yes. Still easier.
Taryn stabs at her strawberry-pecan salad. Another reason this could never work. I’m allergic to strawberries. Even if I wanted to kiss her—which I definitely don’t—I wouldn’t be able to now.
“Have you and Hailey been friends long?” I force myself to ask.
They met through a support group for POTS patients, arranged by their doctor’s office. I like that she has friends who are going through the same thing she is. That she’s finding a community for herself.
“About two years. Right before she started dating Ryan,” she says.
I grunt, swirling my fork in the salmon on my plate.
They’ve been dating a lot longer than I expected them to.
Not that I thought they’d crash and burn.
More, I thought they’d tie the knot already.
He proposed after three months, and they talked about going to the courthouse, but for one reason or another, they haven’t made things official. I’m not sure why.
If I had a woman wearing my ring, I’d want a matching one of my own. I’d want to proclaim to the world that I’m hers just as much as she’s mine.
The woman at the other table laughs, the sound drawing my attention again as she pats the arm of the man across from her. Something tickles at the edge of my memory. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.
She’s not wearing a ring. Neither is he.
Are they dating? Friends? More than friends?
I’m not sure why I’m so fixated on them. Why I’m so drawn to them. I can only see the side of her face, obscured by her hair and the angle. He’s gazing at her in—is that adoration? Fondness? I’m not quite sure.
He’s undoubtedly interested in her, though. I don’t blame him. I’m intrigued by her too.
“Aidan?” Taryn prompts.
Right. The date. I blink a few times, trying to clear my thoughts as I refocus on her.
“Sorry,” I mutter yet again.
“You know, I think I’m going to head out,” she says, dropping her fork onto the table. “Tell Hailey I say hello.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow hard around it. Sure, there’s no spark. And yes, I’m distracted. And yes, I don’t want to be here.
But to leave in the middle of our date?
“Okay.” What else is there to say?
She looks at me with pity. “See you around, I guess.”
It takes her a minute to stand and gather her things. I rise from the table as she pulls on her coat and picks up her cane, but once she’s gone, I flop back onto the uncomfortable metal bistro chair and bury my head in my hands.
Why, why, why?
Why am I so awkward? Why am I so uncomfortable around people I don’t know? Why can’t I move past this mental block?
The scent of caramel and bourbon fills my nose, and I inhale deeply, the tension easing from my shoulders. Normally, strong perfumes overstimulate me, but this one, the light notes of sweetness and bourbon, is actually… relaxing me?
I look up in time to see the woman from the other table float past me toward the exit.
She’s dressed simply in tight black leggings, tall boots, and an oversized sweater, with a computer backpack slung over her shoulder.
Something about her face is familiar, though I can’t imagine where I’d have seen her before, only that I have.
She’s even more beautiful up close, rich brown eyes and a tempting berry smile on her lips, and fuck, a bolt of want rushes through me.
I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me.
But for the first time, I wish I did.
She doesn’t look at me as she passes by. And why should she? I’m nobody. Yeah, I’m a celebrity in this town, the franchise captain, but I’m still that nobody from Milton Heights, Nowheresville, Wisconsin.
With a sigh, I lift my hand to call the waitress, settle the tab, and then head home. My pulse thrums with anticipation the entire drive, and as soon as I’m safe in my apartment, I lock myself in my bedroom and bar the door with a chair. I do not want to be interrupted.
Not that I think anyone will try to come in the locked front door or my locked bedroom. Still, better safe than sorry. I would deal with it if Ryan walked in on me. I don’t think I could survive if Hailey were the one to open my door right about now.
Stripping off my button-up and jeans, I leave them crumpled on the floor before striding to the bathroom. This is already my third shower of the day; once to wake up, a second time after weights, and now…
The lube waits for me in the vanity drawer, and I pull my favorite toy from the opaque box underneath the sink. I don’t think anyone is going to go rifling through my bathroom cabinet, find the box of toys, and go shocked Pikachu that a grown-ass single man in his early thirties has sex toys.
I keep another stash in my nightstand drawer and a small bag in my travel toiletries kit, plus enough batteries to light up the New York skyline. The last thing I want is to run out of power at a crucial moment.
Humidity clings to the tiled walls, my skin growing damp from the splatter of the showerhead through the open door. When I finally step inside, closing the glass door behind me and moving beneath the hot spray, my entire body relaxes, knowing what’s in store.
Between my legs, my hard cock bobs, desperate for attention. I don’t even bother with soap; not yet. Squeezing some of the lube into my palm, I warm it between my hands before I finally, finally, touch myself.
I start with my nipples, the buds drawn into tight peaks.
They’re super sensitive, and as I tweak the left one, I wonder what it would be like if they were pierced.
I probably can’t find out until I’m out of the league, though.
It would be too risky while I’m playing—too much risk of injury.
And I have no intention of retiring anytime soon.
My lack of a sex life can wait until then.
The lubrication on my fingers makes my touch slippery, and my left hand snakes down my belly, over the divots of my abs, down to my cock.
I keep things very well-groomed down there.
The last thing I want is my cup tugging on some errant hairs in the midst of a particularly athletic game.
I scratch my fingers through the short pubic hairs on my pelvis above my cock.
The sharp bristle centers me while winding me higher and higher.
Caramel and bourbon. The bold, smoky-sweet scent won’t leave me alone. It haunts me. Taunts me. It’s burned into my memory, as permanent as a brand on my skin.
When I finally wrap my hand around my shaft and give myself a firm, slippery stroke, I cry out. It feels so good, the friction a tease of what’s to come. My blood thrums in my veins. Every time I slide my hand over my cock, I climb that little bit higher, the tension inside me coiling tighter.
It’s not the woman. I don’t know her. I’ll probably never see her again. She has nothing to do with this.
But that scent… it follows me.
Picking up the toy, I pour a generous amount of lube inside, then suction it to the wall. The dual showerheads mean that even when I slide my cock into the silicone stroker, I’m still warmed by the spray.
The fake pussy feels like heaven. After nearly eight years celibate, and a year of not actively trying to get laid before that, I’ve tried almost everything. There are only so many times I can get myself off with my own hand before I go insane.
I used to think using a toy made me less of a man. Weaker. Less masculine.
But if that were true, there wouldn’t be a market for them.
There wouldn’t be a purpose. There are plenty of ways to have sex that aren’t strictly penis-in-vagina, and if I don’t have a willing partner, why shouldn’t I find relief in a toy?
It’s no different from a woman using a vibrator or a dildo.
And there’s nothing to say that if I were to magically find a partner one day, we wouldn’t be able to use the toys together. If this hypothetical woman in my bed isn’t comfortable with my using toys now, she wouldn’t be right for me, anyway.
The silicone pussy grips my cock, and as I fuck into it, I let my mind wander. I don’t think of women I’ve been with or seen in porn when I get myself off. No, instead, it all goes blank until all I see when I close my eyes is black, black, black.
That damn scent wafts through the air, and I know it’s all in my imagination; there’s no way she is here…
But what if she were?
What if she stood at the entrance to my bathroom? Watching me get myself off. Watching me think of her.
What if she stripped off her clothes and helped herself to my shower?
What if she slid her hand over my chest and up my neck, claiming me? Kissing me. Branding me.
What if she took control of the toy, stroking it over my cock, the slow glide of friction working me over until I’m so wound up I can hardly breathe?
What if she—
My grunts and groans echo off the tiled shower walls, and I’m getting close, but I’m not quite there yet. I slide a slippery hand between my legs to cup my balls, rolling them in my palm, and—oh.
My orgasm crashes into me, and I cry out as I release into the toy. I keep fucking the silicone until I’m oversensitive and force myself to pull out.
Breathing hard, I step back and rinse my hands under the spray of water, then bring my hands to cover my face as I try to regulate. Satisfaction seeps into me, a bone-deep exhaustion threatening to consume me.
It takes a few minutes before I’m ready to come back to reality. I make quick work of cleaning the toy, then soap myself up, and by the time I step out of the shower, the water runs cool.
Once I’m dressed in a fresh pair of joggers and a soft cotton Henley, I stuff my feet into a pair of slides and unbar my door.
There’s nobody else in the apartment. Although Hailey technically lives with Ryan now, they’ve both made a habit of coming up here and checking up on me. I like it as much as I hate it.
My brain still buzzes with endorphins as I fix myself a snack and settle on the couch to fire up my gaming console. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, so I’m surprised to find Annie’s username highlighted on the available players list.
I click on her contact, the line connecting almost immediately.
“Hey, you.”