Page 36 of The Liar's Reckoning

Feelings fill my chest with intense pressure as I shower. Hurt is what I land on. It’s not a new sensation, but it doesn’t happen often. I’m the definition of sheltered. If it wasn’t by my family or the church, I also excel at sheltering myself. I avoid rejection like the plague, never deliberately putting myself into situations where it’s an option.

I don’t ask much of anyone—the most I’ve ever asked for was New Yorkers’ votes, and even then, I was fully prepared to lose. It wouldn’t havehurt me. Yes, it would have meant rejection, but not the personal kind. Not the kind I fear so much from my family or peers.

The fear comes from a thousand tiny insults over the years. That tie doesn’t work. Your hair is too long. Walk like a man, take off that bracelet. Don’t cry. Don’t embarrass us. And that was just from my parents.

I’m an overachieving perfectionist with a massive fear of being told I’m wrong.

Being told I’mclueless?

Yeah, it fucking hurts.

I don’t think Silas is a cruel person, but in the short time we’ve been interacting, I’ve concluded that I bring out the worst in him, whether I’m paying him for his time or not. The man I met the night before my wedding was an actor—telling me everything I wanted to hear because that’s what he’d been hired to do.

Fuck it if it felt good. Fuckhimfor leading me on this morning and going out of his way to humiliate me tonight. I’m a United States Senator. He’s adoorman.

I flick the water off and snatch a towel from the rack, drying my imperfect body and reminding myself I know how to do a push up on my own. I don’t need someone who has no hope of understanding my life making me feel ashamed of how I’ve decided to live it.

I’m not ashamed.

I had a plan, I executed the plan, and there is not a single thing wrong with it.

I never needed sex before, and I don’t need it now. And if I do—well, Avery’s indicated her door is open.

I shudder at the thought.

It’s just after seven when I crawl into bed with the chicken curry I ordered and turn on the TV. But the first thing I see when I turn on the liberal news channel I like to watch to keep myself well-rounded is one of the hottest male journalists in history. If I had to name a celebrity crush—it’s Fischer Elliot. His wild, dark blond curls blow in the desert breeze while his silvery blue eyes stare intently at me through his camera lens. I barely hear a word he’s saying.

I swear I live for his sporadic appearances on my screen. My dick perks up, and since I’m alone, I wrap my dry hand around it and give it a few slow strokes, groaning as it fills and thickens.

Too soon, he’s thrown the reporting back to the studio, and I’m picturing another face—one that has my hand abandoning my hard on and cursing the air. I eat, hoping that will distract me, but the spicy food only heats my blood more.

I’m in a losing battle with my persistent erection, but I refuse to jerk it off to any memories of Silas.

I pull up some straight porn on my tablet, a woman with her tits spilling out above her lacy bra, blowing an extremely well-hung man. She’s good, but the sounds he’s making are better. Idon’t even need to watch. I use a palm full of lube and listen to the sounds of her mouth on his cock and the grunts he’s letting out—his low murmurs telling her what a good job she’s doing. His grunts of “fuck…shit…that’s it baby…”

I still have wet dreams about your fucking mouth.

Fucking liar. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and stroke myself faster, pressure building in my balls as my ass squeezes hard. “Umph…” I grunt, turning my face into the pillow as I thrust into my hand.

The man on the screen is getting close. “Ahhh…fuck baby…that’s right…you gonna swallow my cum?”

Her high-pitched whine is followed by a choking cough.

I blow all over my sheets, the orgasm surging through me too fast for me to hold it back. Cum pulses from my cock as I rub slowly up and down my length, groaning and writhing in my own mess.

The deep male voice coming from beside me murmurs his praise. “So fucking sweet.”

13

SILAS

Ishift on the barstool, unable to find a comfortable position after having my ass taken repeatedly last night by a Swedish businessman with a giant cock. He had almost no finesse, but a shit ton of stamina. I had to let Katia know afterwards to add to his à la carte charges. He’d wanted five hours of free use, and he got it—but free use can’t be pre-negotiated.

When I got a glimpse of what he was packing, though, I hadn’t hesitated. I’d needed to get my brains fucked out, and he’d taken some male enhancement drug that kept him hard as a rock almost the entire time I was in his hotel room.

I’m paying for my choices tonight as the guests for Christian’s party drink and mingle while I can’t decide something as simple as whether to stand or sit. A hand slides along my back, and I glance up to see Drew looking devastatingly handsome in a black henley and worn jeans. His dark blond hair is slicked back, his stubble is shaved, showing off the deep cleft in his chin. He’s even smiling—an uncommon occurrence. “Why’re you by yourself?”

My roommates don’t know about my third job, and I’m not exactly known for casual hook-ups, so I can’t tell him the real reason I’ve got my right ass cheek glued to a bar stool until I getenough liquor in me to ignore the burning ache, but even my digestive system feels rearranged. I keep breaking out in cold sweats as my gut cramps. I’m a mess, and Drew is looking at me like it’s obvious.

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