Page 10 of Pretend I'm Yours
It works, at least for the time being, since my cock is now too raw to handle, my left shoulder and bicep trembling and aching as if I’ve just put myself through the most grueling workout. I pull up my dating app, swiping left to reject any woman who resembles Corinne in the slightest. Only then can I finally fall into a restless sleep.
It’s too bad that my sick and twisted mind rebels, Corinne and Kason following me into my dreams. When I wake, I’m lying on my stomach atop a sticky puddle of cum, having humped the sheets as I dreamed of making love to my wife with Kason’s naked chest plastered to my back.
So much for that.
* * *
I at least attempt to remember my date’s name this time around, finally forcing myself back out into the dating world another month later. I’m pretty sure her name is Jenny or Jennifer. Both, maybe? To be sure, I ask, “Jenny is short for Jennifer, right?”
“Yeah?”
I tap my boot in time to the music as I smile at my age-appropriate date, having brought her to a swankier country western bar closer to the city, where the floor is only marginally sticky and the little hairs on our arms won’t adhere to the tabletop. It’s not nearly as nice or familiar as the old honky tonk, but it’ll have to do until I’ve finally saved enough money to get approved for a loan to buy and fix it up.
“Which do you prefer to go by?” I ask.
“My name is Jessica,” she says, leaning back on her bar-height chair, crossing her arms.
“Ah, sorry about that.” I tap my right ear and lie when I say, “Bad hearing.”
She raises a bright blonde brow. “We met on a dating app. My name is on my profile.”
I cough, taking a swig of my soda to buy time, having ditched the alcohol this go around. “Bad eyesight.”
She huffs. “Thanks for dinner, I guess,” she says when she stands, though she’d hardly touched her five-star dish of chicken fingers and limp French fries.
“Sorry,” I mumble, dragging my hands down my face as Jessica walks away. It wasn’t going to work out with her either—she’s wearing bright green plastic clogs. Who does that on a first date?
By the time I’ve paid the bill—no Asshole Gratuity this time, having been extra polite to the waitress—and am ready to head out, a tall brunette catches my eye, line dancing to the jukebox with a few others. With her next heel kick and hop, her short black skirt flounces up, giving me a sweet peek of her lovely thighs and the underside of her bouncy ass.
Leaning against a wooden post, I stare at the woman like a creep beneath the brim of my cowboy hat and let my eyes trail down her long legs, appreciating the fact that she’s wearing brown leather boots. Now there’s a woman who knows how to dress up for a night out.
I cock my head to the side.Huh. I think Corinne has those same pair of boots. I wonder if she has a skirt to match. Bet she’d look mighty fine—
I hightail it across the dance floor and spin my niece around, catching her with an arm around her back so she doesn’t fall. “Did you follow me here, sugar?”
“Uncle Declan?” Corinne’s hazel eyes flash wide, but I’m not buying her innocent act, as cute as it is.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know I was here.” The guy dancing to the side bumps into us, stumbling enough to almost spill his beer before he catches his balance, throwing me a nasty glare.With a quick apology, I steer Corinne off the dance floor toward the dim hallway that leads to the employees-only area.
Corinne says, “No, I didn’t follow you—I didn’t even know you were off from work.” She looks past me and shimmies her shoulders when the song changes, oblivious, perhaps, to the war raging inside me with her looking so fine.
“I should have texted. Sorry,” I tell her, since I’m usually pretty good at letting her know where I’ll be so she won’t worry. But this timeIwas worried that if I pulled up our message thread, I’d end up telling her I was coming straight home instead. “If you didn’t follow me, then what are you doing here?” I back her up, slapping my hand against the wall covered by a collage of old, peeling band posters and car-for-sale signs over her shoulder, forcing her to look at me.
She does, but only with an impertinent eye roll. “Why areyouhere?”
“You first.”
“I was on a date,” she says with a shrug.
It’s a hot poker to my heart. “With who?” I eye every guy in this place, deciding not a single one of them is good enough to even shake her hand.
“Doesn’t matter. He left, like, five seconds after he saw me.”
“Now, why in the hell would he do that?” Though I’m glad he ditched her, it’s tempered by the fact that some loser took one look at my sugar and thought she, somehow, wasn’t good enough for him. Doesn’t he know how lucky he’d be to spend time with her? That she has the most magical hands?
Corinne says, “He lied about his height. Said he was six feet tall. He didn’t like that I was taller than him, even without my boots.” She huffs a laugh. “If he’d have just owned it, I wouldn’t have minded dating someone shorter than me.”
All that tells me is one, her date is an idiot, and two, she at least found him attractive enough to continue the date if hehadn’t bailed, which drives me up the wall. I don’t want her interested in anyone other than me, even though that’s exactly how it should be.Damnit, Boyd, sorry again.
