He blinks, looking shell-shocked. Maybe because I’m about to ask him to help me come, the harsh look on his face feels like a slap.
I know something is wrong when he fumbles to his feet and turns his back without meeting my eyes. He starts to pull his clothes on, moving quickly but clumsily, like someone trying to flee a one-night stand.
How embarrassing. Insulting. Rude.
I shift a little, so the fabric of my ripped leggings isn’t pressing against my swollen, clit. It’s still throbbing. I lick my lips. My mouth still tastes like him. Is that the problem? That I swallowed? I thought guys liked that. It hits me that I’ve done it for him twice now.
I put my hand over my chest and watch his back and shoulders ripple as he pulls his pants on. I take a few deep breaths and try my best to forget about my throbbing pussy.
Fuck his moods. I gave him a blow job because I wanted to. I was in control.
Why did I want to? Why did I enjoy it so much? Because... I feel this weird regard for him. An inexplicable... not fondness exactly. More like interest. I’m so damn interested in this guy. So attracted to him. So when I saw the chance, I guess I wanted to make him come undone. Not even
want—I needed it. I don’t know why he stokes such strange feelings in me, but I’m not going regret it now.
I remind myself that just before this, he was the one initiating things in the stock room. What was so wrong with me doing the same?
Doubts whirl through my head. I shut them down as I sit on my heels. I gave a fabulous blow job—no question about it. The way he jerked and writhed... the way his cockhead leaked a river... All those dirty words... the mindless moans. There is no denying it. He wanted what I gave him.
I want to hold out judgment, give him a few more minutes to collect himself and start acting normal again, but as he puts his shoes back on, I feel fury. Spurned fury, born of the embarrassment I just can’t shake.
Did I read that wrong?
Is he sending mixed signals?
I thought half the point of this ridiculous acquaintanceship was messing around. Is Kellan some kind of blowjob hater?
The back of his biceps ripple as he gets the last boot on his foot. He straightens up, and my stomach curls into a little ball as he turns around to face me. I can tell he’s trying to keep neutral, but his features are taut. Troubled.
I can’t stand it, so I look down at the floor. I spot the remainder of the bud I plucked and scoop it up. It’s a little nugget: no longer than my pinkie.
I drag my thumb over it, then find the nerve to hold it out to Kellan. He blinks down at it. He looks pissed off. No—he doesn’t. His mouth twists, and I think that he looks desperately unhappy.
I curl my hand around the bud. He watches me without a word, without a breath.
I try to read his face, and when I can’t, I feel the weight of everything I don’t know about him. My heart is pounding as I whisper, “Why do you do this, Kellan?”
“Why do you?”
“I asked you first.”
“I have a lot of reasons.” He blinks. His handsome face is now on lockdown.
“Name one.”
He shrugs, the motion quick and angry. “It should be legal. As medicine, for recreation. I give it to people who need it.”
“You mean like people with ailments? Chemo patients and... whoever else?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a lot of people like that on your list? People who use it as medicine?”
He shifts his eyes away from me, then back. He locks his jaw, then holds my gaze for a long moment. “I sell so I can give it to the med patients for free.”
“So... you’re like Robin Hood.” I look at his stark face, trying to find the kindness that I know is there. “How many of those patients do you have?”
“A lot.” He sighs and rubs his brow, as if he has a headache.