Page 37 of Getting It Twisted

“Did something happen?” he asks.

The question is fair, I suppose. I must look insane with my hand around a bottle and a pile of broken glass around me.

“Like what?”Like you making me come and then ignoring it ever happened? Like me obsessing over the unbidden fantasy of getting your hands into my hair and your tongue into my mouth?

I should just be able to let him jerk me off and move on, and not think about kissing him twenty-four fucking seven.

I should drive him away. Piss him off for good. Make him leave me to my devices, to fall apart out here until I go insane.

But I won’t.

I want him here. I need him here. And that pisses me off even more.

I hurl another bottle to its death for good measure.

“I brought the tools and stuff,” Daniel says. “Are you going to keep breaking bottles, or are we going to get to work?”

I don’t give a rat’s ass about the house, to be honest. But if this is what it’ll take to keep him around, I’m game. Anything that makes him pay attention to me.

I grimace. Jeez, I need to get a hold of myself.

We walk toward the house. Daniel slides his hands into his pockets, glancing my way.

“I brought cleaning supplies too, so now we can really start fixing this place up.”

“Fine,” I say. “But just . . . don’t look through any of my mom’s shit.” Hidden among all the dust and junk is stuff I’d rather leave alone. Stuff I don’t want Daniel to find out about.

“Why not?”

“You wanna find her old dildos and thongs?”

His nose scrunches up. “I get your point.”

We’re at work until well into the night. We fix the window. We scrub the bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway. We sweep the floor. We wash and dry the bedsheets.

Come sunset, we go to the patio to take a break. All this work has made us hot and sweaty, and Daniel fans his shirt at his front, shooting me a questioning glance.

“Oh, go ahead,” I say with a slow smirk. “Take it off. I don’t mind.”

He lifts the front of his shirt with both hands, revealing his naked torso glistening with sweat. Without clothes to hide them, his muscles look even more impressive. His wide shoulders, the curves of his biceps . . . Not to mention his hands. They’re real handyman hands: large, rough, and callused.

He could give me what I want with those hands. He could hurt me, make me feel right.

Heat pools in the pit of my stomach as I imagine it: his hand twisting into my hair, his lips by my cheek, his cock stretching me open . . .

I want to taste him all over. Lick his sweat. Feel the spray of his hot cum down my throat. Want him to pound my ass until I see stars and we’re both dripping in sweat. We could be perfect together. I could blow his mind if he’d just let me. Why can’t he see it?

My fingers itch with the urge to pull him close. To grab him by his meaty shoulders and kiss his stupid, hot-and-cold mouth. To get down on my knees and make him moan.

But instead of doing all that, I push my hand into my pocket and get out a prerolled joint.

“This is her old spot,” I say, nodding to the ancient wooden bench we’ve settled down on. “Theresa. She used to sit here all day long. Chain-smoking, drinking. Going on and on about how I stole her chance at the spotlight.” I scoff and flick my lighter. “As if her getting knocked up with me was the only reason she wasn’t yet a Hollywood star.”

“What do you mean?” Daniel asks.

“You didn’t know? Get this: At sixteen, my mom runs away to LA, right? A year later, she shows back up on Daddy’s doorstep, eight months pregnant.”

“Who was the father?”

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