Page 39 of Wilde's End
Then he dumps me on the front steps of the nearest house and stalks away without a goodbye. I know I’m supposed to say something back, to tease him or piss him off or …
He’s back in the truck before I can think of a damn thing, and all I can do is watch him drive away.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
WILDE
Ithought I got rid of this agitation already, but I storm into my house, cross the living room, and then slam the bedroom door closed behind me. I’m too worked up to get far, so I thump back against the door, shove my shorts below my balls, and then fist my cock. It’s painfully hard, and jerking off dry doesn’t do anything to calm me. I’m just so … so … I grit my teeth against thoughts of Hudson, but like in real life, the memory of him is determined to torture me.
His lips have this natural curl to them that I want to sink my teeth into. Anything so I won’t have to look at it some more. I hate his mouth so fucking much.
Giving up, I spit into my hand. My thrusts into my fist are easier, and I sink into that place where I stop fighting the orgasm. It doesn’t matter if Hudson is the one I’m jerking off over. All I need is a release, and then I can kick my ass over it later. If I fight where my mind wants to go, I’ll only end up fucking up my high, and I need this frustration inside of me out. Not to make it worse.
My cock is oversensitive, and I lean back into the wall as I fuck my fist harder. Hudson never fucking shuts up. He never knows when to back down. His constant pushing and challenging is getting under my skin in a way that both makes me horny and also makes me want to punch him. It’s been … well, since before I first got to Wilde’s End that I’ve had someone challenge me like he does. We all make an effort to get along here, to talk out the drama, and when that can’t be done, to put it to rest in a Peril match. Nobody tells me no. Nobody fronts up to me. Nobody enjoys the way I hate them.
Then on top of that is his antagonistic flirting. I know he’s using it to get under my skin, but I don’t think he knows how far under it burrows.
My balls tighten, and I lift the bottom of my shirt with my free hand to clamp the hem between my teeth. I’m getting close. My body feels feverish with how much I need to get off, and I let the images of Hudson take over.
Of the pretty city body, perfect chest made sexier by the map of gravel rash over it. Of the heavy way he breathed through the pain, and my brain mixing that with him breathing through something else. Of that curl to his lips. Watching it slowly disappear as he spreads his infuriating mouth and wraps it around my cock …
My dick jerks in my hand before I’m ready for it, and relief sweeps over my shoulders as I unload into my fist. The tension in my body uncoils, orgasm draining from my balls, and as I come down from it, I sag against the door, panting like I’ve just finished a workout.
Then my brain kicks in.
Motherfucker.
I choke on the sound in my throat as I yank my pants back up, and I throw open my bedroom door. As good as that felt, it’s not at all what I wanted to happen. Giving in to those thoughts aboutHudson is a terrible idea, and if I’m going to succeed in running him out of town, I need to be smarter than that.
I wash my hands off in the sink, then head back outside to load up the bike and take it back again. The thing really doesn’t look good though. I take a minute to inspect it, noting the oil staining the ground beside where it was lying. The bike isn’t my problem, and Hudson has two brothers who can fix the damn thing while he’s injured, but once I load the bike onto my truck and strap it down, instead of taking the road toward Old End, I make a right and head for Ziggy’s place instead.
I pull up out front of the old mine shaft and lay on the horn for a second before climbing out of my truck.
It only takes a moment for Ziggy to stroll out, hands in his pockets, eyeing me with interest.
He rubs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw before pointing toward the bike.
“It’s the brothers’,” I say darkly, loosening the bike straps before unhooking the back of the tray and setting it down. “Think it has an oil leak.”
He walks over to help me get the bike down, but I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. I try ignoring him, but it doesn’t last.
“The faster this is fixed, the faster they can use it to fuck off.”
His stare doesn’t let up for another long moment, but then he drops it and shakes his head.
“Don’t.”
“Didn’t say nothing,” he mutters so quietly I barely hear him. Ziggy takes the bike and wheels it away from me.
We’re down the bottom of the hill that leads up to Hobby Straight and the main road that passes by. It’s helpful having Ziggy live here because he’s usually the first to hear if someone’s come off the road or—like with Hudson—if we have unwelcome visitors in town. And because he’s more isolated than the rest ofus and I actually trust him, right by his place is where we keep the supply carriages.
The old train cars have been repurposed to house anything and everything the town could need. There are five of them standing side by side, towering over me and pockmarked by years of being beaten by the elements. What were once steely gray are mottled red with rust and browned by years of being blanketed in dirt. Grass and weeds anchor them to the earth, and I don’t think there’s a soul alive who could move them at this point.
Ziggy parks the bike by the nearest one and pulls out his keys.
“What do you think is wrong with it?” I ask.
