Page 70 of Man Cuffed
“Oh my God, there’stwoof you?” the new roommate had gasped.
“Not anymore,” I’d said. And then I just left. I went to a buddy’s house and let him get me drunk. The next day I drove back to Indiana, and I literally didn’t come home to Michigan for almost three more years. A job offer was the only thing that could entice me back. That and my sister begging me to take it.
As for Morris, I never even punched him in the face. All my friends expected me to. I think Morris himself expected it. But that would only be stooping to his level, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. My only option was swallowing the pain and trying to prove what shitty people Morris and Julie were by being the better man.
They didn’t notice, as far as I can tell. They got married six months later. Everyone was relieved when I didn’t show up for the wedding. Or Christmas, or Thanksgiving. Ever. Their betrayal cost me so much.
It’s not that surprising that I’ve written off relationships. And I don’t see how that could ever change. I can’t hand that much power over to anyone again. I’m not even capable of it.
Anyway. It’s a moot point. I’ve got this other wedding to go to. Meg will accompany me, and I’ll make sure she has a good time. After that, I’ll have to break things off.
It doesn’t matter what the quiz in the magazine says. They don’t know me. Very few people do. And I like to keep it that way.
The shit inside my head ain’t pretty. But it’s home.
21That Only Happens on Netflix
Meg
“Mac,” I chide as his hand wanders down my thigh.
“What?” He cups the curve of my knee, and I shiver.
“Not now,” I insist. “I’m trying to talk to you.”
“I’m not a talker. I’m a man of action.”
“You sure talk a lot while we’re naked.”
“That’s dirty talk. Dirty talkisaction.”
I laugh. He makes me orgasm and he makes me laugh, sometimes at the same time. There are moments when I think Maguire might really be a keeper. A lot of moments. In fact, we’ve spent many, many moments together since the night of my ride-along.
These past couple of weeks we’ve invented quite a few new meanings for the word “ride-along.” Ahem.
“No, listen. For real.” I prop myself up on one elbow. We’re both totally naked, sheets be damned, and tossed aside. I feel completely at ease talking to him like this. Clothes flung off. My hair a curly mess. It’s easy to be comfortable with a man who’s just tasted every part of you and then come back for more.
“Your sister’s wedding is tomorrow and we haven’t even talked about…”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he groans. Then he reaches for the sheet to cover up his slowly softening cock. That’s a pity. Both the softening and the covering.
“You don’t have to talk about the whys or the history of it all. I just need to know the what kind.”
He studies me. “I have no idea what you just said. It’s either post-orgasm fog and I still don’t have enough blood rushing to my brain, or you just made no sense. The whys, the history, the what kind?”
“Focus!” I say. “I just need to know—what kind of girlfriend do you want me to be?”
I can actually feel him start to choke. And there’s a flush to his cheeks.
“Maguire!” I say and snap my fingers inches from his face. “Breathe. I mean, what kind of girlfriend do you want me topretendto be for your sister’s wedding? Remember?”
“Oh!” His relief is so obvious that I feel a pinch in my chest.
“I don’t need to know all the history, unless you want to tell me. But I just need to know what you want. From me.”
He shrugs. “I’m no good at hypotheticals. Give me some examples.”
“Okay, sure.” It’s actually a great idea. So I jump up and run, buck ass naked to my little closet where I haul myself into it. Literally.
