Page 8 of Daring Destiny

It’s like high school all over again, but so fucking be it.

Scrolling through the pictures, I find it’s her eyes that shred me to the bone. Emerald-green orbs bore into my soul through the screen, daring me to…Fuck. It’s like she’s challenging me without saying a word. Damn if my cock isn’t now hard as a pole.

Before I can stop myself, I’ve unzipped my jeans and my dick’s in my fist. I pump slowly. Shut my eyes and visualize.

My sex-deprived mind conjures up a scene where Astrid, wearing skimpy black lingerie, is kneeling before me. I can practically feel the silk of her hair when I fist it at her nape and push her mouth toward my shaft. She utters a needy whimper when my crown breaches her lips and a guttural moan when I thrust to the back of her throat.

Ahhh, my hand glides up and down my swollen cock. Soon, I’m jacking myself hard, imagining her laving my balls. Swirling her tongue along my dick like a lollipop.

Using my thighs as leverage, Astrid stands, pulls her panties down and steps out of them. She keeps on her sky-high black pumps and straddles me. Runs a finger along her pussy. Sinks down until I’m buried into her velvety heat and pulls the cups of her bra to the side so her breasts spill out.

Ohhhhh. Pale-pink nipples, puckeredsoooootight.

Jesus Christ. I spurt a gallon of come all over my hand and make a mess of my shirt.

Thank God for my private executive bathroom. I clean myself up. Change into a new shirt from the stash of clothes I keep on hand for all-nighters. Contemplate my situation. Feel a bit foolish and not at all satiated.

The thing is, Astrid’s name alone brings back shitty memories of high school. Years filled with loneliness. Isolation. Tension. I thought I’d done a pretty decent job of putting everything behind me. The bullying. The insecurities. The longing to find people who understood me.

It never fully goes away, though, does it? No matter how many covers of tech magazines I’m on or how much money I have, the guy who’ll never fit in lives inside me. Taunting me. Telling me I’ll never be enough.

I mean, look at me. What a loser. Instead of manning up, texting her, taking her out and fucking her for real, I’m in my office, jacking off to a picture of her on my phone like arealloser.

Who am I kidding? Astrid has no romantic interest in me. She’s the kind of woman every guy notices and every girl wants to be. Born to be admired. Coveted. Cherished. She’s also very successful. She sold Connor a fifty-million-dollar house, for fuck’s sake.

Aha.

Yep. I figured it out. Chances are, she has some ulterior motive related to my technology. She’s a realtor, after all.

“Brennan? You should head out if you’re going to make dinner.” Brenda, my assistant, knocks on the door. She’s a fifty-something dynamo who knows a thing or two.

Sheepishly, I unlock it and brush past her. “Thanks for the reminder. I was changing my clothes. You’re welcome to go, I’m heading out.”

It’s rare I leave work before ten p.m., but I always make an exception for my family. Tonight everyone’s in town to celebrate Connor and Ronni’s permanent move to Seattle. It’s a beautiful evening. I’m not used to being done at the office in time to feel the warm glow of the sun.

The second I open the front door to my parents’ Craftsman mansion on Capitol Hill, Connor and Ronni pounce, each holding a twin nephew. Toran and Tristan are their names. I can never tell who is who.

“Did you text her?” Ronni hugs me tightly. “I’ve been dying to find out what it is she has of yours.”

Connor ambles up behind her, rockstar swagger embedded in every fiber of his being. “Aye, please put me out of my misery. She won’t stop bugging me about it.”

“Who?” Cillian walks up to the three of us and slings his arm around my neck. “If you’ve got a date, shouldn’t I be the first to know? Irish twin rights and all?”

Cillian is a year older than me and we’ve always been close, though we’re as opposite as two brothers can be. Despite our differences, he and I get each other in a way none of our other brothers do. He looks out for me and I look out for him.

I swear, if I hadn’t relied on Cillian’s sloppy seconds for the past decade or so, I’d be celibate. He’s never content for me to be a wingman. If we’re out and he has the opportunity to get laid, so do I. A couple of my hookups have even become “girlfriends,” so to speak, though I’m the absolute worst at maintaining any sort of relationship.

Regular sex is great and all. The wooing and dating stuff…isn’t. I guess it’s not my jam, I don’t see the point. Consequently, nobody sticks around for long.

“Astrid Gustafsson. You remember her. She was in my class.” I shoot him a look and attempt to appear unbothered. Cillian doesn’t need to know she was my inspiration to rub one out less than an hour ago. For many reasons.

His eyebrows shoot up. “The girl you were fixated on for a while? Blonde? Cheerleader? Class President? All the guys wanted to fuck her?”

“Yeah, she’s the one,” I mutter. Hearing my brother say it out loud annoys me.

Cillian scrubs his beard. “Ah, yeah. She dated the douchey basketball player who cheated on her all the time. What’s she want with you now?”

Connor’s and Ronni’s heads comically ping-pong between us.

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