Page 32 of Bagging the Blueliner
I knew I wasn’t eighteen anymore, but damn. Thirty-four wasn’t ancient, and rising to the occasion had never posed a problem before.
Convincing myself I needed a little more action to get in the mood, I ripped off my shirt, rejoining my blonde bed partner.
Lining up the fly of my jeans with her thrusting hips, I ground into her. She moaned like a pro, giving no indication that she could tell I wasn’t hard. Even the heat radiating from her pussy through my jeans wasn’t enough to get my dick to stir.
Throwing up a Hail Mary, I decided burying my face between her thighs had to work. Dragging the skimpy thong down herthighs, I pushed them wide with my hands. Pink and glistening—at least one of us was turned on.
Lowering my face, I was inches away when the image of Hannah with the douche downstairs popped into my brain.
“Fuck,” I groaned.
Thinking I was impressed with her pussy, blonde chick moaned. “Please, Cal.”
Any hope I had at getting it up fled at the idea of Hannah with another man. I was angry, not aroused. Instead of enjoying a random pussy, I wanted to beat the shit out of that fucker for daring to touch her.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
“Cal?” A tentative call came from above.
Shit. What was her name again? It started with an S.
Summer, Sophie, Sasha, Sara.
Sara, that was it!
Pulling back, I looked her in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Sara. I don’t think this is going to work tonight.”
Sitting up, she slid off the bed, gathering her clothes from where I’d thrown them on the floor. “It’s Sadie.”
Yeah, I’m an asshole. Thanks for the reminder.
Shutting herself in the bathroom for a few minutes, she reemerged fully dressed. Not sparing me another glance, she let herself out.
Hannah had gone too far this time. She’d fucked with my sex life, and that was unacceptable. Like a parasite, she’d taken root in my brain, affecting my everyday life.
That ended tonight.
Chapter 9
Hannah
My alarm went off,and I stretched out an arm toward the nightstand to hit snooze. Last night had gotten away from me. I remembered making out with Matt. Or was his name Mark? Whatever it was, it was short and started with an M. When he’d proposed going back to his room, I was forced to make a quick exit.
Cringing at the memory of how his tongue had traced the outline of every tooth inside my mouth, I distinctly recalled wondering if the sex would be as icky as his kiss. Not wanting to find out, I’d excused myself, claiming an early morning, and beat it the hell out of there.
What was it about me that attracted losers or the sexually incompetent?
Was I giving off some kind of signal that said I liked bad sex?
Groaning, I grabbed my phone to check the time. A notification stared at me, and I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t imagining what I read.
I had a voicemail from Cal last night.
What didhewant?
Seeing his name reminded me that there was nothing wrong with me. I’d had a hot, attractive,competentman interested in me not that long ago.
Cal ruined that for me.
