It can show me what I want, and what I’m missing.
I don’t want to be on the partner track, and I definitely don’t want Lindsey’s Cartier jewelry.
It’s the success, the stability, the happiness that comes from making a good living doing something I love.
I try hard not to think about what my life would be like if I’d followed a similar path to Lindsey’s. Back in college, we were both pre-law. But a lot changed for me my senior year, and while my mom and dad really wanted me to toe the family line—they’re both attorneys—my heart led me elsewhere.
I don’t regret becoming a sommelier. But I do wish I had more to show for all the hard work I’ve put in over the past ten years.
I do wish I didn’t allow the world to make me feel like a joke as often as I do. I’m a lot less insecure than I used to be, but every so often, I can’t help but think no one would ever give Lindsey the side-eye for her career choice.
I crawl into bed, tired but unable to sleep.
I really, really want to make this job work. Not to compete with or impress my sister, although maybe she’ll finally stop looking at me with that condescending sympathy in her eyes every time I talk about my job.
I want to make it work for me. Because my gut is telling me that this is the one—the dream job that will give me the stability I want and the creative freedom I crave.
For a long time, I thought that was too much to ask. I know how the world works, and I realize how privileged I am to even be considering these goals, much less going after them.
But I figured hey, if I can imagine it, maybe I can make it happen.
So here I am. And unfortunately, I don’t have a boss who believes in me. In fact, I have to prove my worth to him every damn minute of every damn day.
I think about Lindsey again, living in her perfect world. I don’t need perfect. I don’t need to be perfect. But I do have to find success in reaching my goals.
I’ve come this far. And I’m not going to let Samuel Beauregard keep me from making my dreams come true.
Chapter Eight
Samuel
I wake up with a woody.
What am I, a goddamn teenager?
Running a hand down my overgrown stubble, I blink the sleep from my eyes. I had dreams last night.
Vivid, explicit dreams. Someone’s dark arts at work, no doubt.
Might as well revisit them this morning. Maybe starting the day with an orgasm will make it a little less miserable. The internet sex—it’s been liberating.
Too often, I find myself playing into the fantasy of who my hookups think I am—the guy with the smile and the swagger—rather than just being myself. Almost makes me think I don’t want them to know who I am.
Keeping girls at arm’s-length gives me control over the situation. And I like control.
Only yielding that control, in certain situations anyway, has turned out to be the biggest fucking turn-on ever. For the first time in forever, I’m letting someone else take the lead, and I’m legit surprised it hasn’t blown up in my face yet.
I’m not gonna begin to unpack what that says about me. There’s a lesson here, I know, but it’s early days yet. Still, I like the sense of freedom I feel when I’m connecting with this girl. She’s uncovered a side of me I’ve never shown to anyone else, and it’s fun just being who I am with her. No expectations. No fear.
Reaching down, I grab my dick, hissing when I thumb the slit on the underside of my crown, and squeeze my eyes shut.
I fucked her tits last night. So this morning, I imagine I’m rocking into that pretty little cunt of hers as I start to give myself slow, lazy tugs, the heels of those wicked shoes digging into my bare ass.
It hurts.
I like it.
Goddammit, I like her.
My strokes become harder, more urgent. She knows I like it when she takes charge—she knows me—and I surrender when she pushes me off her, rough and raw and hot as hell. I land on my back, and she climbs onto my dick, reverse cowgirl style.
I can see the tops of her bent knees spreading as she rides me. This angle is deep, and I can tell she’s adjusting to it because she goes slowly.
She feels so good. Tight, soft. Vulnerable. She’s equal parts alpha and beta this way. Dominator and doe.
“My hair,” she breathes, her head falling back. “Pull it.”
Only then do I realize her hair is coiled tightly in a bun.
A bun I know well.
When I hesitate, she glances at me over her shoulder, and our eyes lock. Hers are light brown. They’re heavy lidded, but they still burn with honesty. Real need, vulnerability.