Page 6 of Duke

She doesn’t fool me.

I see her.

Right now, she’s moving her wide hips to the beat of the music—hips made to breed children. I shudder picturing her belly, round and swollen with my child. Breaking out in a devilish grin, I bring the cold beer bottle to my lips.

Our eyes catch.

Hers narrow at the heat I’m slinging her way.

There’s a wildcat inside—dying to claw her way out. Despite, what she says—I know what she’s made of.Thank fuck, I decided to come here on a whim. But staying longer than I should have has stirred up forgotten memories and old loyalties. I’m nostalgic for all the summers when I rode dirt roads during the day and anything I could at night.

But now, she’s all I see regardless if my eyes are open or closed. I watch as her spine stiffens, and her back straightens.

Challenge accepted sweetheart.

It’s war then and the hunter in me can’t wait to catch her. The club chicks, whose bras and panties I find littered on the handlebars of my ride does nothing for me but Shanna has an unforgettable face and a body that reduces me to a teenage boy.

I haven’t even talked to her yet—uttered one word to the girl. A man like me probably scares the shit out of her anyway, not that Shanna would ever let on.

She’s got grit, just like her old man.

I’m nothing like the pansy-ass boys at her little clean-cut college whom she probably dates. I helped free the city of Fallujah and watched some of my friends fall—not making it back.

I killed men.

I came home.

I don’t talk about the shit that I saw there—I can’t,even though it’s been over fifteen years.

Instead, I put on my boxing gloves and pound the heavy bag at the gym until my fists crack and bleed.

I’m one mean mother-fucker. I don’t make polite chit-chat. I tell it to you straight—with no bullshit. I don’t do the hearts and flowers bullshit. I’m honest. I’m an in and out type of guy until I come—then we’re done. But I make sure to leave all the ladies sated before dropping a kiss on their heads and softly shutting their doors.

I work out for three hours a day lifting, punching, and running. Some men drink, others use drugs, me—my poison is working out until my body shakes. I push my physical limits, welcoming the pain because I deserve pain.

I have battle scars, but I’m a survivor. Guilt eats at me every day because I came home while men better than me—did not.

I don’t dream anymore.

I wish I could.

I only have nightmares where my nose is filled with desert dust and my ears ring from the sound of rapid gunfire while my body shakes from the vibration of bombs dropping.

It’s been over a decade, but the remnants of war are something I doubt time will ever heal.

Shanna’s hips swing back my way, and my thoughts are forgotten. She’s finally noticed that Meat and I are empty and in need a refill.

Fuck—do I need a refill.

I was so lost in thought—I didn’t even notice he came back. Bringing the bottle over she pours shots right in front of me giving me a close-up of her breasts spilling from her top. My nostrils flare catching the scent of lotion from her skin. She smells like roses and cream and dresses like a goddamn cock tease. Her tight ass clothing showcases her round curves that any red-blooded man would kill to own.

She’s perfect.

Unlike the stick models in California—their frail and bony bodies can’t fuck hard. There’s no flesh to pound into; no massive breasts that bounce from the force of you ramming them while they cry for more.

I just know Shanna’s full-rack would bounce all over the goddamn place.

They’re fucking huge—perfect for titty-fucking. I would probably come in five-seconds just from the sight of her huge tits in my face as she rides me cowgirl style. I wonder if her bare pussy would ride me or if its covered with soft, springy curls I’d run my fingers through searching for her nub. Her hair the color of chocolate, would spill around us as she comes. Her matching colored eyes would beg me to make her come again and I would.

I’d make her come a thousand different ways if she’d let me.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, putting one hand underneath the bar trying to rearrange my junk that’s suddenly suffocating in my pants. I’m acting no better than the father I just buried.

She flicks her hair over one shoulder, while her hips shake to the beat as she wipes the counter.

What the fuck is happening to me?

Women don’t control me like this. But whatever this is—I need to relieve it. Getting a woman into bed has never been hard, but I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone as much as I want to do her, even though she’s too young for me. But my dick says otherwise and if I don’t make him happy: I’ll have no fucking peace.

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