Page 31 of Tell Me Something True

Hands braced on the bathroom vanity, Miles let his head hang as he caught his breath. His body was still shaking. His legs were weak. He felt boneless and empty and wrung out in the best way possible.

But he didn’t feel satisfied.

He wanted more.

More of Tabitha’s sharp and sweet taste on his tongue.

More of her silky skin under his fingers.

More of her tight pussy milking his cock.

His hands fisted and he realized that while he’d tossed her belt at her like some asshole throwing money at a prostitute, he still had her thong wrapped around his other hand.

Lifting his head, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Fucking idiot.”

He yanked the thong off his hand but couldn’t make himself whip it aside. Instead, he laid it on the corner of the counter, but the contrast of black silk on white marble only served to remind him of the way Tabitha had stood in front of him in nothing but it and her shoes, that tiny dark triangle and slim straps a stark contrast against her skin.

Movements jerky and quick, he cleaned himself up, then washed his hands. Dried them. Counted to fifty. Then to one hundred.

Then to one hundred again.

It wasn’t just so he could try and gather his bearings. Or because anxiety was welling up inside of him and counting usually helped him shove it back down again.

It was to give Tabitha time to wrap herself up in her skirt, button her blouse and saunter herself right back out of his life.

He counted to one hundred again. Just in case.

Then he opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway.

Only to mutter a low, dark fuck, turn and snatch her thong off the counter.

He padded down the hallway to his bedroom, refusing to wonder why he once again wrapped her underwear around his hand, like it was a goddamn prize he’d won.

One he couldn’t part with.

In his room, he emptied his pockets, then changed into a pair of gray sweats. He needed to lock up and turn off the lamp in the living room. Get a drink of water. He was amped up and antsy, anxiety pressing, pressing, pressing against the outer corners of his mind. Maybe he’d have a beer instead. Watch something mindless on TV.

Except his television was in the living room.

And he usually sat on the couch while he watched it.

The couch where he’d lounged while Tabitha had stripped for him. The couch he’d leaned his head back against while he’d feasted on her pussy. The couch he’d banged into the wall while he’d pressed her head down and fucked her like an animal.

He’d just bought that couch eight months ago.

Now, thanks to his fucking ego, he was going to have to buy a new one.

He stalked down the hall only to slam to a stop when he saw his living room.

Tabitha was still here.

Still naked.

Fast asleep on his couch.

Something inside of him rose, like the morning sun. Warm and soothing. Something suspiciously like joy.

Something idiotic like hope.

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