Page 10 of The Grief We Hold

Dice puts his fingers in her pussy as he continues to fuck her ass, but I focus on Nola’s face. Her mouth is open, her pants and moans getting louder. Her whole body tenses. She’s too unstable to lift a hand to wipe her mouth.

Cum and saliva hit the top of Smoke’s jeans, which he only pulled down far enough to free his cock.

Any second, she’s gonna come. I can feel the chase for completion. That momentary fleeting feeling of wholeness. And I feel the relief for her through my bones.

Smoke scoops up some of the spilled cum from his jeans and from her chin, then offers Nola his hand. “Lick it up before you come, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, stop stalling her,” Dice shouts.

Smoke laughs. “A bit of delayed gratification never hurt anyone.”

“Except my cock,” Dice says, as Nola frantically laps up Smoke’s cum from his hand.

She does as he says, but the orgasm sneaks through anyway.

“Smoke,” Nola gasps, even though it’s Dice fucking her ass and fingering her to the edge.

“Please, Wraith,” Isla says, her voice cutting through the picture being painted by my friends.

So absorbed in what was happening, I forgot about her.

Not needing to see any more, I grab Isla’s hand and my beer, then head to my nice corner room with windows on two sides—the privilege of my rank within the club.

When Hallie became my old lady, she asked if I could move the bed into the corner where the two windows met so that on a night as clear as it is tonight, she could see stars from whichever direction she was lying.

First thing I did after she died was move the bed to the opposite corner. I couldn’t be in that spot without thinking about her and the life we planned together while living here. Lying there was one giant reminder that we weren’t going to have it.

And yet, one night when I told Catfish about it and he offered to switch rooms with me, I couldn’t bring myself to swap. Sometimes grief is sticky. It clings to you like tar, and you just can’t get clean of it, no matter how much soap you use.

“How do you want me?” Isla asks when I close the door.

“Lose the shorts and whatever else you got underneath them.”

I free my dick from my jeans and roll a condom on while she does as I say.

She leaves the ankle boots with the heels on. I lead her to my desk, then place her leaning forward over it, one knee on the edge, opening her up to me.

Watching did the same for her as it did for me. It’s the main reason she’s one of the few club girls I’m sexually compatible with.

I don’t have to touch her too much to turn her on. We don’t need intimate foreplay.

It takes two thrusts to get balls deep into her, and I’m immediately reminded why a club girl is better than the palm of my hand.

“Wraith,” Isla cries out.

Pressed as deep inside her as I can get, I take a deep breath, then blow it out.

I can already feel her pussy clenching around me, desperate for release. Isla is a quick and easy lay, and I’m grateful I don’t have to go through the performance of lasting all night just to make her come.

I pull out, letting my thick cock and the apadravya piercing that passes through the head of my dick do the work for me.

“You feel so big, Wraith,” she says.

But I pay no attention to what she’s saying.

Instead, I’m fucking shell-shocked.

Because in my head, I’m not with Hallie like I usually am.

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