9. Wrinley
Wrinley
W hat the fuck just happened? I don’t know how to describe the emotions I’m feeling.
Am I excited that I just let a stranger finger fuck me in a kink club?
That’s not what I should be feeling, right?
I should be more upset and yell ‘stranger danger’ up and down the halls, so everyone knows there’s a super secret finger banger running around.
Right?
Maybe I should find a way to get out of the club– not half-naked– first.
That was easily the hottest experience of my life.
Not that my body has any real experience.
How am I ever going to make myself orgasm again after that?
Nothing I do to myself has ever or will ever compare.
That mother fucker just ruined me for all other fingers and then left me here to fend for myself.
Least he could have done was offer me a t-shirt or something.
Instead, I got a fucking towel thrown at me.
Quickly, with the towel wrapped tightly around my torso, I make quick work of getting back to the bar.
“Seriously, Wrinley,” I mutter to myself.
“What did you think was going to happen when you got an unknown text to meet a stranger at a kink club? Just be grateful you aren’t chained up in a cellar somewhere. ”
“Do you always talk to yourself?” A familiar voice I haven’t heard in years cuts through the noise surrounding me.
Turning in the direction of the sound, my eyes bug out of my head as I take in my best friend's brother, in all his frustrating but heavenly glasses-faced glory, staring back at me. What the actual fuck is he doing here?
“Get fucked, Axel. I’m not in the mood.” The reality here is…
I shouldn’t be in the mood because I just had an out of body experience in a room where people pretend to be pets for their lovers.
But I’m pretty sure he’s even hotter than the last time I saw him.
That was five years ago and I still think about that day, even though I know I shouldn’t.
“And what mood would that be exactly, Wrinkley?” Disdain drips from him when he calls me by the same nickname he’s used forever.
Does he use it because he knows how much I hate it?
Who am I kidding? Of course he does. “Because from here it looks like you’re doing the walk of shame after getting fucked.
Wonder when they started allowing sluts through the front doors. ”
“I know it’s been a while. What? Five years?
” I pause dramatically waiting for an answer I’m sure I won’t get.
“You know you don’t affect me, right?” That’s a flat out lie.
My insides are already vibrating with the need to pounce on what I’m sure is a massive dick, at least until the shame kicks in and I remember how fucked up it is that I want to bump uglies with my best friends brother and the guy that has basically bullied me for as long as I’ve known him.
“Is that so?”
Goddamn him and his tattooed bulging biceps threatening to bust out of that tight ass basic black t-shirt.
Get ahold of yourself, Wrinley.
“I see you still can’t afford contacts,” I blurt out. Jesus, I used to be better at this. I blame Mister Finger Banger for my lowered IQ.
“Good one,” he claps back, clearly unaffected by my poor attempt at insults. “You really know how to hit me where it hurts.”
“As riveting as this is, I’ll be leaving now.” I turn and make my way towards the front, but I can feel those caramel eyes boring a hole into me as I go.
It’s chilly outside and I checked every rideshare app and the soonest I can get a ride is forty-five minutes. Fucking great. Now I really do get to do the walk of shame. Although, that would probably involve actual shame and I’m not sure I’m even a little bit ashamed.
“Looks like you need a ride.” I’m not even out of the parking lot when I hear him pull up next to me. When I turn to look at him, he’s wearing a hint of a grin that I’m not sure I’ve ever really seen.
Smug son of a bitch.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“I’m sure you are, but I’m not asking, Wrinley.” My back straightens at the use of my actual name. He’s used it so little, I sometimes wonder if he actually knows it. “Get in the fucking truck. Now.”
Groaning, I turn to face him in his ridiculously big ass truck.
It’s black with fully blacked-out windows and looks to be lifted with an extended cab.
I’m slightly intimidated but seeing it up close takes me back to when he forced me onto his bike in the rain and I nearly vomited down his back from the panic alone.
It’s not that I don’t want the ride home.
I do. What I don’t want is for him to see the anxiety that wracks my body whenever I get into a car.
The therapists called it PTSD from unresolved trauma at a young age.
I humored them as long as I could until I quit going at sixteen.
The point being… I manage. I just don’t want to manage within eye shot of Axel.
I fought off a full blown panic attack all those years ago, but he couldn’t see my face back then. This is… different.
“Is there a problem?” Irritation laces his voice and I realize I have to tell him something.
“Why should I trust you to get me home safe?”
“You shouldn’t.”
“What do you mean, I shouldn’t?”
“It wasn’t a riddle. I’m not a good guy,” he admits. “But get in anyway.”
Reluctantly, and with a huff, I step up to the gigantic vehicle, trying desperately to hide the tremble that’s threatening to take over my hands and pull the handle to open the door. I’m not sure how I’m expected to get in this beast.
“There’s a step stool under the railing. It pulls out.”
I find it quickly and make awkward work of hopping into the passenger seat. When he reaches across me to grab the seat belt and buckle me in, his hand brushes my arm causing a jolt of electricity that lands directly at my traitorous clit. “Thanks,” I grumble.
All I get is a grunt in response as he shifts into drive and pulls out into traffic. My chest is suddenly heavy and my palms begin to sweat as soon as we start moving. He weaves through the moving traffic like it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing to me.
“Hey,” Axel snaps. “You can relax and stop white knuckling the oh shit handle now.”
His words are slow and blend together like we’re moving in slow motion. My breathing picks up speed as I try to think of some snappy quip that tells him with certainty that I’m not the same pushover I once was, but any words I can find get lodged tightly in my throat.
“Can’t,” I manage to croak out.
He slams on the breaks, mid-traffic, and out of sheer instinct, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and brace myself.
“Will you snap the fuck out of it?” Grabbing my chin, he pulls my face to him.
“Whatever has you so freaked out, let it fucking go. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.
” He punctuates each word to help drive his point home, but promises mean nothing.
I don’t want to feel this way, but I’m not in control and no one can keep anyone safe.
Suddenly, I feel a sharp sting to the side of my face. My eyes pop open and my mouth gapes. “You slapped me!” Reaching up, I cup my throbbing cheek and attempt to soothe the pain.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Still in shock, I draw back and slap him back. Hard. So hard, in fact, his glasses go flying onto the dashboard.
He grins and now my heart rate is elevated for an entirely different reason. Axel has never really been nice to me, but he’s also never really hurt me either. That half grin, half scowl plastered on his face right now has me questioning every single one of my life choices.
In a split second, he flies across the cab to fist my hair and pull it so hard I can feel the hair follicles breaking free from my scalp.
I’m positive this is his attempt to punish me for assaulting his face, but I’m also sure if he knew it was having the opposite effect, he might rethink things.
All this is accomplishing is making me want to get on my knees and choke on that anaconda he’s not really hiding in his pants.
“I’m feeling generous since you’re having some sort of mental breakdown, but you should know… that’s the only one of those you’ll ever get. Hope it was worth it.”
Does he have me keyed up and willing to do literally whatever he wants right now?
Absofuckinglutely, yes.
Will I ever admit that to him? Hell no.
“What? So you’re allowed to slap me, but I can’t slap you back? That’s some fucked up, psycho-logic if I’ve ever heard it.”
“It did the job it was intended to do.” He releases me with a not so gentle shove. “You’re welcome.”
I cross my legs in a poor attempt to relieve the ache building in my core from his touch as he puts his glasses back on and starts moving again. Thankfully, we don’t have far to go.
When he pulls into my parking lot, the realization hits me as I release a long breath and turn to face him. “I don’t remember giving you my address.”
“You didn’t.” He spits the words out so effortlessly, like they’re nothing. Unimportant.
“Okayyyyy… Thank you for the ride.” Then I hop out of his truck and run quickly into my apartment without looking back. Weirdest. Ride. Ever.