I’m tempted to grab the tequila and a shot glass, but I tamp down the urge. I never drink. I don’t like to lose control of my faculties, and I really don’t like the way I feel the morning after. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve been intoxicated, and I have no plans to add to that number. It’s not worth it.
So, I finish my water, put Deuces’ now-empty food bowl and the fork I used to mash it in the dishwasher, then head to bed. A black blur races down the hall ahead of me, and by the time I reach my room, he’s curled up in his usual spot––on the pillow next to mine.
He called dibs on it shortly after I brought him home, and since no one ever sleeps here with me, I let him have it.
And I refuse to think about how long it’s been since another human has been in that bed with me. It’s better this way, honestly. Whenever I hook up with a woman, I take her to my private penthouse suite in the hotel. It’s cleaner that way. There are no expectations on her end. No disappointments. And no awkward scenes where I’m trying to get her out of my home the next morning.
No, I’m just fine here with my cat.
I get undressed and climb into bed naked. Lying on my back, I throw an arm over my eyes and try to relax. Unbidden, memories from earlier flash through my mind, one in particular surfacing and refusing to budge.
Sophie, marching away from me with her plump ass cheeks peeking out from beneath those tiny shorts she was wearing. I was hypnotized by the sight, not moving to chase after her until she’d pushed through the front entrance.
I see it again and again, and my cock responds. Then my thoughts move on to those hard nipples straining against her shirt. I know she wasn’t cold. It’s summer in Vegas. Did that mean she was turned on? By our argument? Or by me, in general?
Fuck. I’m hard as a rock, but I refuse to relieve the pressure. I am not going to jack off to thoughts of my new assistant. That would just be…insane.
Almost as insane as getting hard over thoughts of her in the first place.