The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Mine, goddammit. No more dicking around.

My thoughts are all animal.

There’s also an artsy beauty to this too.

The way her auburn hair falls across my white sheets like flowering vines.

Her green eyes searching, already lost in her whimper and the droning ache of her lust.

The tattoo on her shoulder—the one I’m afraid to ask about—an old-fashioned pen with what looks like a dark ribbon flowing out of it rather than ink. The inside looks hollow, names and dates separated by bullet points.

I make out Marty and the dates of her parents’ accident; Grandpa Doug and the year she left next to a darker word—forget.

I noticed it the first time we fucked.

Tonight, even through my madness, my eyes keep coming back to it.

Am I the reason that’s on her skin? Am I the jealous asshole who’s pissed at himself that she’s wearing a melancholy word instead of my name?

It can’t change the fact that she’s perfection incarnate.

A real-life spitting image of what I’ve imagined for years.

I can’t fight this. I can’t feel bad about it. I cannot stop.

Everything I’ve ached for my entire life gleams in the depths of her eyes and that drenched slit between her legs.

She’s made me certifiably insane.

When I’m buried in her, thrusting fit to kill, nothing else matters.

Not the past or future. Not the pain. Not the fact that this is sickeningly temporary.

Impatient, she scoots further up the bed and stretches her arms out.

“Weston. Join me.”

With a low growl, I run my hands up her long, sleek legs.

They’re already parted sweetly, open for me, wanting me to break her.

I run my hands up her inner thighs, my nostrils flaring at her scent.

The little moan she lets out is all the encouragement I need to slide two fingers in the succulent folds of her pussy.

Fuck yes, she’s ready.

Hotter than melted butter and needier than Lucifer.

She gasps, arching her hips up, riding my hand and inviting me to replace my fingers with a cock pulsing so hard for her I can feel blood strumming in my ears.

“You like that, woman?” I ask, stroking her walls.

She rewards me with a shrill whimper.

“Yes—yes! I...I like everything about you, West.”

It’s amazing how she makes me feel.