Page 51 of Bad at Love

He’s thrusting his hips, trying to move deeper or faster, but that’s not happening because I’m in charge here. Not him.

“Please, please,” he begs under his breath and I swear it sounds like he’s crying. Is he really this sensitive? This on edge? I’ve hardly teased him at all, but I guess with so much pent up, he’d be more sensitive. I feel bad pushing him so much for his second time, so I move a little faster, still holding him to the bed so I can take control. It’s a few bobs of my head before he’s grunting, his hand in my hair as he spills down my throat. The sounds he makes are fucking magical. I’m going to dream about them for nights to come, I swear to fucking god. I suck every last drop from his cock until I’ve wrung him dry, and he’s jerking to get away from me.

I sit up, wiping my mouth and looking down at him. He looks drunk, and I can’t help but laugh. I drop onto the bed beside him.

“Get out and go to bed, Gabriel.”

He doesn’t hesitate to get up and leave, stopping for a second to gather his clothes.

“See you in the morning!” I call before he closes the door.

Morning comes sooner than I’d have liked, and though I planned to sleep until late afternoon, I can’t this morning because the moment the sun is up, there is a knock at my door.

I’ve created a monster.

Chapter Twenty-One

Gabriel

I wait by Marta’s car as she gathers her things to get out.

“Morning,” I say when she reaches me. She gives me a skeptical look.

“What has you so happy?”

“I’m not any happier today than any other day,” I answer as we walk.

“Liar.” She sips from her travel mug. “What did you do? Buy a new mop?”

I laugh at that, and she glares at me.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.

“Who are you, and what did you do with Gabriel?”

I roll my eyes as I swipe my card. The doors slide open and we walk into the building.

“I am Gabriel, for the record.”

Her eyes are narrowed as she watches me, but she shakes her head and we get to chatting about her upcoming plans for the weekend.

“Will you be going to your parents’ for dinner on Sunday?” she asks.

“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly. “I still don’t have a date for the dinner, and that was the issue last week, so it doesn’t seem like a good idea. However, skipping isn’t a good idea either.”

“How silly to get that angry over a date?”

It’s true. No one would know that my mother had to cancel a seat except for the people in the restaurant. Whatever friends she’s inviting must already know herdefectivechild muffed up his wedding.

“Storm offered to go.”

She gasps. “He did? Are you going to take him?”

“You’re joking, right? My parents would have a heart attack.”

“It would be good revenge.” She nods before taking another sip of her coffee.

“That’s what he said,” I mutter.

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