The Rule Breaker

Chapter One

Oliver

Here's something no one tells you about sobriety: it's boring as fuck.

Old hobbies, old friends, old lovers?

They're arranged around a bottle.

They're for that fun, life of the party, always-has-the-good-shit guy.

The sober asshole with a chip on his shoulder?

Not welcome.

So here I am, sweaty and exhausted, after a full day of work and a long session at the gym.

I should be spent.

Instead, my body aches for release.

A rush. Any rush.

I don't have a motorcycle. I don't like sweets. With old lovers no good—

My hand is a friend most of the time. It serves me well when I sketch, tattoo, toy with a gorgeous woman.

But lately?

My right hand is my new best friend.

Six p.m. and I'm ready for session number three today.

Might as well make it count.

I turn on my fan—even though it's October, it's hot as fuck upstairs. Then I spend a few minutes looking for a video.

School girl/professor.

Pizza boy/customer.

Boss/secretary.

Pages and pages of over-the-top bullshit.

Not what I need.

I need real. A gorgeous woman on my bed, legs spread, hips bucking as she comes on my face.

Someone new. Different.

Someone like Luna.

No. I'm not going there. I'm not fantasizing about my sister's best friend. No matter how much my self-destructive streak screams yes.

My cock ignores my reasoning.

Why not Luna?

Why not the gorgeous college student, with her smart mouth and her perfect tits?

Could anything really be more important than hearing her come?

My thoughts disobey me.

They flit through images of Luna.

Long legs. Tan skin. Teasing smile.

That sexy black bikini. The one that barely covers her tits.

My cock roars to attention.

There's no arguing with the fucker. I might as well savor the next few minutes.

The anticipation. The rush. The release.

The only fucking satisfaction I get these days.

I wrap my hand around my shaft. Let my head fill with memories.

Luna at the beach in that tiny swimsuit. Jumping into the waves.

Emerging all tan and tall and soaking wet.

Shooting me that you wish you could look.

Then fantasies.

Her against the wall, my hand between her legs, my name on her lips.

A sound downstairs—

What the fuck?

Dad is at work for another few hours. Daisy is hundreds of miles away. No one else has a key.

No one except—

Shit.

"Hey," a familiar voice calls. "Ollie? Your car is out front. Are you here? Or did you walk to the gym? Oh god, don't tell me you're running now."

Fuck. Am I lost in some porno fantasy? Did my cock develop magic powers? Somehow, it summoned the object of its affection.

It would be nice. If it helped me out for once. Instead of daring me to detonate my entire life.

"Ollie?" Footsteps move in the main room. Then up the stairs. Luna mutters something about my terrible music being too loud.

I grab a towel. Wrap it around my hips. Fail to hide my hard-on.

Thoughts of baseball fail to cool me down.

My mantra—I will not fuck up the only thing in my life that matters—does jack shit.

The risk only makes me harder.

Fuck, why is the door open?

This house is too goddamn stuffy.

"Ollie?" Luna moves down the hallway. Three steps from the door. Two. One. "Oh. Shit. Sorry."

In the mirror, I catch her reflection. Damn, I might as well turn around and point to my dick.

She stares at the towel straining to cover my hard-on. "I, uh…" Her cheeks flush. Her gaze shifts to the floor. "I'll let you get to it."

"What are you doing here?"

"Maybe we should talk when you're finished."

"Right. I have to shower."

"Yeah." She stares at the towel like she's willing it to disappear.

If you keep staring, I'm gonna go right now. You want to watch me finish, baby? How would you like to come on my hand? I'm dying to hear you groan. "Fifteen minutes."

She looks at me like she's going to make her question explicit—are you going to fuck yourself—but she doesn't.

Chapter Two

Luna

I will not think about Oliver's cock.

I will not think about Oliver's cock.

I will not, under any circumstances, think about Oliver's cock.

A door opens upstairs. Then footsteps. His bare feet. His jean-clad legs.

Those same black jeans he always wears. Slung low around his hips.

Low enough I could unzip them and—

Nope.

Not.

Going.

There.

Not.

Thinking.

About.

His.

Cock.

Period.

End.

Of.

Sentence.

Yes, it's a much better subject than the one currently occupying my brain.

Yes, I much prefer sexual fantasies to the blinking light screaming love is over.

Yes, even unfortunately timed sexual fantasies. (Oliver is Daisy's older brother. And Daisy is the only person I trust. So, sleeping with Oliver… not in the cards).

This isn't the time. I need to figure out where I'm sleeping tonight. Tomorrow. Next week.

Someplace that doesn't reek of betrayal.

Okay, I'm not in physical danger. There's no practical reason why I can't stay at my parents' place.

But I can't.

Even if that means I spend the night at some twenty-four-hour diner, drinking shitty coffee to stay awake until Mom's at work.

Anywhere else.

Anyplace I don't have to look at her traitorous face.