Page 93 of Man Cuffed
Nope.
She’s in Chicago filming with that fucking superstar who’s probably nuzzling her neck right now and promising to frisk her.
Dammit. That’s my line. No one should say it to her but me.
I take a breath. I remind myself that it’s better this way. Pretty nearly perfect. I’ve got my nice quiet apartment. My stack of books to read. I finishedThe Sun Also Risesagain, and now I’m looking at the thrillers on theNew York Timesbestseller list. Maybe I’ll read a police procedural just to pick apart all the details they get wrong.
I sit down on my couch. Get back up to heat up a frozen pizza in the oven. Sit back down. Open the book. Read. But not really.
Timer buzzes. I get up. Get the pizza. It’s hot.
Head back to the couch.
Pick up the book.
Take a bite of pizza.
Still hot.
Read a page.
Read another page.
Take another bite. Swallow.
Damn.
It’s fucking quiet in here.
Like, dead quiet. I can barely concentrate.
I used to sit here and listen to Meg next door. She sings full out all the time. Sometimes she doesn’t know the words, but she sings shit anyway. I would hear her bump into things. Hear her practicing her lines. Sometimes she plays the other characters in the scene with her and it’s hysterical to hear her voice go all deep and manly.
Sometimes I’d just knock on the wall. Four quick taps. And she’d come over. Slip inside my apartment, and then I’d pin her against the wall. Against the counter. On the bed. One time on the balcony outside. Cover her with kisses. My tongue lapping at the slight salt of her skin. I’d cup her breast in my hand, pull down her shirt, take her nipple in my mouth. She’d moan.
I’d bury my face between her legs and just taste her. Best fucking taste in the world. And when she pulled my hair and moaned my name, I’d stand. She’d open to me, and I’d just slide right up into her.
The last few times, we’d pause there. “Just stay,” she breathed. “Stay right there. Nice and deep.”
The shape of her smile. The sound of her voice. Her laughter. I can almost hear the echo in my heart.
Right now I just hear...me.
My stomach gurgles.
The stove ticks as it cools.
I turn the page.
* * *
“What is fucking wrong with you?”Lance asks. Actually, first he tosses a roll at my forehead andthenhe asks me what’s wrong with me. He’s on desk duty today. I think he asked for it because he misses hanging out with me now that I’ve got my new position. Today, I’m on desk duty too. I’m not accomplishing much. Mostly filling out the endless stacks of paperwork.
He tosses another roll at me. This one lands right between my eyes with a thump.
“How old is that roll?” I ask. “That fucking hurt!”
“Awwwwww, poor wittle baby. You want me to kiss it to make it better?”
