Page 20 of Monk
Even now, despite all the years between then and now, and the anger I still carry toward him, just seeing his face puts a hitch in my heart. As I look into those intense eyes of his, even in a photograph, the emotions that well within me are overwhelming. They’re as visceral today as they were more than a decade ago. And I can’t help but recall that I lost my virginity to Jacob in this very bed.
As I shut everything else out and think about that night, I feel a warmth that starts in my belly and quickly spreads through me. It’s not difficult to push through all of the negative and focus only on the way he once made me feel. Jacob has always lived in my fantasies and has remained my ideal man. A generous lover, and a good man, with a good heart.
I remember everything about that night—how he smelled, how his mouth felt on my body, how he felt inside of me—I remember it all in vivid detail. The warmth spreads like wildfire and a sensual quiver ripples through my intimate parts. As the heat between my thighs grows, I drop the picture, Jacob’s face fixed firmly in my mind—as it always has been—and push my panties down around my thighs.
Closing my eyes tight, I bite my bottom lip and slip my hand between my legs. My fingers strum my clit, swollen and throbbing, sending electric jolts through me. Circling my button with the fingers of my left hand, a long moan passes my lips as I slide my right hand down and slip two fingers past my velvety folds, piercing my molten core.
I picture his face, hovering above me, that intense gaze holding mine. Picturing him inside me as I plunge my fingers deep into my center sets off explosions of pleasure within me. Pressing my head back against my pillows, I cry out, my left hand still strumming my clit, playing it like a virtuoso as I continue driving the fingers of my right hand into me.
“Jacob, yes baby,” I gasp. “Yes.”
The memory of being with him is so vibrant, I can practically feel his mouth on my pussy. Feel his cock deep into me. My nose is filled with the scent of his skin, his cologne, and my whole body tingles, sending goosebumps marching along my skin as I remember the feeling of his touch.
The pressure is building up low within me and I know I’m getting close. Part of me wants to prolong this, enjoying the sensations coursing through my body. But there’s a small part of my mind that’s afraid I won’t hear my dad come home, and I really don’t want him to walk in and find me in this position.
Flashing back to my memories of sex with Jacob, I see myself on top of him, grinding down on him and riding him hard. I’m so wet, my fingers slide into me with ease. I pump them into me harder and faster, my entire body trembling with desire. The fingers of my left hand keep flicking and circling my clit, making me writhe on the bed.
Gasps and whimpers of pleasure echo around my room. My heart is racing, and my breathing is labored, my entire body feeling like it’s on fire. I see his face, tight with pleasure, and his eyes burn with intensity as they bore into mine. In my mind’s eye, his body moves in a sinuous and sensual rhythm and as my fingers plumb the depths of my own sex, it feels as if my every muscle clenches tight.
“Oh god, yes,” I groan.
Gritting my teeth, I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on the memory of his toned, hard body on top of me, the memory of him so deep and vivid. And with my fingers working their magic, I cry out as I reach my crescendo. For a moment, I feel totally weightless, my body hanging suspended in that moment just before you plunge down the steepest hill on a roller coaster.
The groan that escapes me is long, throaty, and sensual. As I tremble and writhe, every cell in my body pulsing with carnal energy, I clamp my hands over my mouth, trying to stifle the scream that wants to come out. The image of Jacob’s face in the throes of ecstasy are fixed in my mind, and the explosion of pleasure is as intense as his silvery-blue gaze.
Leaning back against my pillows, my body quivering and twitching, I let the ecstasy of a powerful orgasm and comforting memories wash over me. I let out a long breath and my pulse finally starts to slow. But as I start to settle down and the remnants of my orgasm fade to a dull sense of bliss, the reality of my life comes crashing back in.
Jacob is nothing more than a fantasy, albeit one that’s sustained me through years of an uninspired rut with Spencer. But the reality is that Jacob is just the idealized memory of a boy who lives in my mind—a boy who promised me the world and gave me nothing but misery and heartache.
Chapter Eight
Monk
After running a brush through my hair, I tie it back into a ponytail that falls just below my shoulders, then give my beard a quick trim. The tick-tick-tick of nails on the hardwood floor draws my attention. I turn around to find my dog Bo sitting in the bathroom doorway, his tongue flopping out of his mouth, looking at me hopefully.
“Sorry, Bo, not today,” I tell him.
He lets out a low grumbling noise, then walks back into the bedroom and jumps up on the bed, turning in a circle a few times before settling down on the comforter. I give the big Brindle Pitbull a scratch behind the ears as I walk through the bedroom. Hanging my towel on the closet door, I throw on some boxers, blue jeans, and a black t-shirt. Over that, I pull on a flannel button-up, and roll the sleeves up to the elbows. After getting my boots on, I throw on my kutte, then give Bo another scratch before walking down to the kitchen.
As I open up his can of food, I hear the thump of Bo jumping down off the bed, followed by the sound of his wild sprint to the kitchen.
“Lunch is served, man,” I say as I set the bowl of food down in front of him.
He digs in with gusto as I make sure the doggy door that leads to his run is open, then check that the rest of the doors and windows are locked before I leave the house. I catch some of my neighbors openly glaring at me—a biker isn’t exactly a welcome addition to the neighborhood. But screw ’em. I don’t really give a damn what they think about me. I’m quiet, clean, and I keep to myself.
Climbing onto my bike, I start it up, the throaty rumble of the engine echoing down the street. I give it some throttle, revving it up just to annoy my neighbors a little more. I put my helmet on, then my sunglasses, and drop my bike into gear and pull out. Ginning the engine to make it even louder, I shoot down the street, leaving the assholes and their judgmental bullshit behind me.
The streets aren’t overly busy as I wend my way through town. But then, I guess they never are. Blue Rock is a sleepy town, which is one of the things I like most about it. A quick glance at my gas gauge shows that I need to fill up, so I cut down River Street and make my way to the local Chevron. Pulling up to the pump, I cut the engine, then quickly start gassing up my bike. I notice a couple of twenty-somethings sitting on the tailgate of their truck talking and laughing with one another, both of them cutting surreptitious glances my way.
After filling my tank, I put the cap back on and head into the convenience market. I buy a couple of packs of cigarettes and a few sodas to take with me, then head back out. The two twenty-somethings are laughing, their eyes still on me, and though I can’t make out everything they’re saying, I hear the words, “loser”, and “biker trash”, and that’s enough for me.
These guys either aren’t very smart, or their parents have never told them to steer clear of the Pharaohs. Given how much the people around here like to talk about us, I’m going to assume it’s the former. Some people just seem to need to burn their hand on the stove before believing when somebody says it’s hot. Young punks like these two seem to fit that category: not old enough to have the wisdom life teaches you, and young enough to still think themselves immortal.
Stuffing my purchases into my saddlebag, I turn back and head straight over to the two men. With every step I take, the anger simmering within draws closer to the surface, a river of fiery rage flowing through my veins. They both sit up, looking startled when I stop a couple of feet away, my eyes narrowed, boring holes into them. They both swallow hard, almost in unison, their eyes flicking one way and then the other, as if they’re looking for a way out.
Dressed in designer clothes meant to look distressed—poverty chic, I’ve heard it called—with three-hundred-dollar pairs of shoes on their feet, they’re nothing more than a couple of punk rich boys. They’re the sort who think they run the world and can do whatever the fuck they want without consequence or regard for anybody else.
One’s got long, shaggy blond hair and blue eyes, while the other’s got dark hair and eyes, and both have the golden skin most surfers do. They’re tall, lean, and in decent shape, though neither one of them looks like they’ve ever been in an actual fight before. They don’t have that edge fighters have. The fear in their eyes is obvious. I can practically smell it.
