Rose
Marcus Jackson set to wed real estate legacy tycoon Rian Fields in a pairing sure to make them the power couple of the year.
He's getting married.
That's the last thing I expected to find with my daily dose of social media this morning.
She's gorgeous. Taller, blonder, curvier.
Nothing like me, which I guess could be the entire point.
The pictures of her on his lap outside her hotel are worse.
His hands on her hips, her arms around his neck, his tongue in her mouth. Clearly enjoying himself.
I lost him to a marriage once before, and here we fucking are again.
I guess that’s not fair. He’s never really been mine and I told him to move on.
By the time I realize I'm not paying attention to my surroundings, I'm flat on my back with my partner Amy's shoulder grinding into my jaw. She's already secured side control.
“Rose?” she asks, easing off just enough to look at me. “You with me?”
I blink up at the fluorescent lights from my back. “Yeah.”
It's automatic. The answer comes before I've even processed the question, because admitting my head hasn't been inside this room once since warm-ups feels more embarrassing than getting smashed by someone I should be giving a hard time.
“Frame,” Coach calls from somewhere across the mat.
Right. Frame.
I slide my forearm against Amy's neck, but it's lazy, almost absentminded. She swims right over it, catches my elbow drifting away from my ribs, and before I know it she's climbing into mount with an expression hovering somewhere between triumph and confusion.
“Well,” she says with a grin, “this is new.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Except it's going to last, because I bridge late, she settles right back down, and everything I try after that is half a beat behind.
My timing is off. My reactions are shit.
Even my instincts seem to be taking the scenic route tonight, and when the timer finally sounds, I'm more relieved than frustrated.
That, more than anything, bothers me.
I push to my feet and head for my water bottle, trying to convince myself I just need a reset.
Bad rounds happen. Bad nights happen. They just don't usually happen to me, and certainly not because a man who isn't mine anymore is marrying a woman who looks like she was grown in a lab specifically to make me feel inadequate.
Fucking fabulous.
Coach intercepts me before I make it halfway across the mat.
“You sick?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
I shake my head.
He studies me for another moment, long enough that I know he's replaying every shitty decision I've made since I walked through the door.
“Then where are you?”
Well.
Physically, I'm standing barefoot on blue mats in a room that's ninety degrees with thirty people trying to strangle each other recreationally.
Mentally, I'm back in my apartment reading Jackson's engagement announcement with tears running down my face.
“I don't know,” I admit quietly.
Coach nods once. “Either figure it out before the next round or go home. I don't mind people having bad days, Rose. I mind people getting hurt because they're somewhere else.”
“I know.”
“And your somewhere else looks expensive.”
Despite myself, I smile. “You have no fucking idea.”
“There she is.” He points toward the mats. “Now go roll.”
The next partner is Jonah, a blue belt who usually gives me exactly the kind of technical round I enjoy. We slap hands, bump fists and start circling.
I see the shot coming. I actually recognize it a split second before he commits.
And then... nothing.
My body never follows through.
He catches both legs so cleanly it almost feels like I handed them to him, and as he drives me backward, I'm fully aware of what's happening while having no interest in preventing it.
“You okay?” he asks as we scramble.
“Probably.”
He laughs. “Probably isn't very convincing.”
“No,” I mutter, fishing for an underhook that's no longer there, “I imagine it isn't.”
By the end of the round he's passed my guard twice, swept me once, and nearly caught an americana I should've defended before he ever isolated the arm. The buzzer sounds before he can finish it.
“That's the worst I've ever seen you roll,” he says, offering me a hand.
“I know.”
“I mean...” He hesitates, suddenly looking guilty. “Are you okay?”
I let him pull me to my feet.
“I will be.”
I hope.
As I walk toward the wall with my towel draped around my neck, I realize this gym has always been the one place my brain behaved itself.
Los Angeles stayed outside. Family stayed outside.
Relationships stayed outside. Whatever chaos the rest of my life was serving up got checked at the door along with my shoes.
Tonight it followed me onto the mat.
And it's kicking my ass.
***
“Oh yes. I can't believe I'm actually inside you. I've daydreamed so long about being with you. You feel so good. Yes. Ride me. Ride my hard penis, Rose.”
Holy fuck, please shut up.
“You like that, baby?”
I lean my head back, mostly to keep him from seeing me roll my eyes.
Yes. After class, I went home with Jonah after a couple of beers at the pub across the street from the gym. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable decision at the time. I'm sad. He seemed fuckable. I haven't had sex in months. There are worse coping mechanisms.
I'm struggling to think of one right now, but I'm sure they exist.
He's hot. I'll give him that. Really fucking hot, actually. But he is a horrible lay. His dirty talk, if we can even call it that, leaves everything to be desired, and while he's blessed in the cock department, he knows fuck-all about what to do with it.
Which feels unfair.
All that equipment and no training.
He grabs my hips and starts jackhammering upward, bouncing me uncontrollably. “Oh, fuck yeah. That's it. Bounce on Jonah's penis, dollface.”
We’ve gone third person now?
And dollface?
The fuck?
A grief fuck is just not worth this.
“I'm going to ride your face now,” I announce, already climbing up his torso.
He's panting like a dog in heat, nodding so fast his head blurs. I'm half tempted to just sit down and smother him. At least the writhing would give me some actual fucking friction.
I sit on his face and his mouth immediately suctions over my lips and clit and...
Wait.
Oh, wait.
“Fuckkk, that's good. Keep doing that.”
Well, look at Jonah coming off the bench in the second half.
His tongue sweeps up and down, in and out, sucking and pinching my clit between his teeth.
“Goddamn, Jonah.”
My hips start working harder while his hands grip my thighs and pull me down even more. I have no idea how the man is breathing, but fuck if I care. I'll do the time for manslaughter.
The friction of his beard is glorious, and I can feel my orgasm building. Finally. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jonah's tongue. Thank you to whatever higher power decided not to make this evening a complete fucking waste.
He takes over the rhythm, dragging me back and forth over his tongue and chin until I'm barely doing anything except holding on. I lean forward and grip the headboard.
“Please. Please. Right there. Fuck!”
He slides two fingers inside and curls them just right, and that does it.
I grip the headboard with everything I have and come apart on his mouth.
It's my first orgasm in months, and holy fuck, the waves are incredible, my entire body jerking and shuddering through them.
Jonah moans against my sex as he comes all over his own stomach and chest.
I’m languid as I slide down and lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling while Jonah starts talking.
Oh, how so unexpected of him…
I have no idea what he's saying. I'm not sure I care. My body finally feels loose, my brain should be pleasantly scrambled, and for the first time all night I should be able to think about absolutely nothing.
Instead, there it is again.
Jackson is getting married.
I close my eyes.
Fuck.
So much for the distraction.