A blonde girl is giving me a wide-eyed look. Fuck, I know her. She’s the blonde—Sheila? Shelly?—I hung around with two weeks ago, the one who keeps texting me.

“Miss me?” she asks and pouts.

Not really. Not one bit, and all the texts I never replied to should have been a big fucking hint, but today… today I’ll play.

Tonight feels like an empty desert stretching in front of me and she’s right here, offering me a tall glass of water.

Looks like fate to me.

“So this is where you live.” She enters the apartment, balancing perfectly on high heels, dragging a red-tipped fingernail along the wall of the hallway. “Classy.”

I grunt in reply, close the door behind us. We had a couple of drinks at a nearby bar, and then when she didn’t make a move to leave, despite my dark mood and limited conversation offers, I invited her over.

She came eagerly, all smiles and batting lashes that did nothing for me. I gripped her hand when she slid her fingers into mine, but soon let go and shoved my hands into my pockets.

What am I doing? Still not sure this is such a good idea. Yet here we are, standing inside my apartment with the lights still off, and she’s starting to undress.

If something’s wrong, she doesn’t seem to feel it. She’s a pretty girl, in a perfectly put-together, polished way. Long blond hair in a perfect shiny fall, lips painted blood red to match her nails, long legs and big tits.

Too perfect.

As she lets her coat drop to the floor, revealing her tight mini dress—red dress, red lips, red everything—all I can see is blood.

I shake my head and rub at my eyes.

Fuck.

She wiggles out of her dress, and even her lingerie is red. Lace, barely-there scraps to cover her nipples and the triangle between her legs, and this is sexy, this should get me hot and ready to go, but…

Is my dick broken? I grab my crotch and groan to myself. Come on, Merc. You never have any trouble getting it up when you think of psycho girl, when you see her, when you smell her.

And just the thought of her gets my dick swelling in my jeans. I’m going commando, and the friction of my hard-on against the rough fabric has me hissing.

What the fuck’s wrong with me? I’m hard for another girl, not the one in front of me.

Focus on the now, asshole. Stop thinking of the chick who won’t give you the time of day. Don’t be a fucking masochist.

“Want to take it off?” she asks, tugging on the straps of her bra, throwing me a come-on look under her lashes.

“Sure.” I paste on my cocky grin and swagger toward her, though I have no desire to see her tits.

Maybe it’s my brain that’s broken.

And I still can’t recall her name.

“What’s the matter?” She lets go of the bra strap and meets me halfway, still pouting. I dunno why but it annoys me. “You look tired. Let me do the work tonight, baby.”

Baby?

She takes advantage of my disbelief at the pet name to unbuckle my belt and push my jeans down. She goes down on her knees, and her hand is on my dick immediately, squeezing and tugging.

Problem is that, as I look down at her, my dick kinda loses interest. Her insistent handling keeps me semi-hard, but if the mind isn’t in it…

“What’s wrong?” she asks with that permanent pout that makes me wanna make honking noises at her.

Christ.

As for what else is wrong… fuck if I know.

Tags: Jo Raven Wild Men Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net