Page 14 of Point of Contention

I dropped my hand and reached for the woman’s bicep, gripping firmly as I led her to my private quarters. We’d need to discuss limits, experience, and get some things lined out before we could scene together, and I had no more time to waste. My chest was tight, by balls an aching mass between my legs, and my heart was a fucking gaping hole in my chest.

I needed to take my mind off the woman who’d left me with this discomfort, so I focused on the one who would help me relieve it.

In the lavender light of early morning, after hours spent with a submissive who was not mine, was not the one I craved, I was still pent up. Still aching and angry, in need of release.

Stepping into the shower, high in the penthouse of one of Manhattan’s tallest buildings, I stood beneath the stream of hot water and leaned one forearm against the slate wall. Dropping my head, I closed my eyes, and as the water ran down over my flesh, I pictured Rylan.

This would be the last time I called upon her memory.

On the screen of my mind, I played back that first night in the Rabbit Hole, when she’d stolen my thoughts and hijacked my resolve. With that black corset wrapped tightly around her torso, pushing her breasts up into plump mounds that formed perfect half-moons of delectable flesh, she’d challenged my self-control, obliterated my discipline.

I fisted my cock, squeezing tightly as I pumped my hand.

Then I imagined Rylan on my desk a few days later, with her skirt around her waist, spread eagle as I fingered her to a shuddering, soaking climax, the first time we’d truly succumbed to our desire for one another.

I pumped my cock harder, faster, punishing it for wanting her so badly that no one else would do.

Punishing myself for falling for someone who hadn’t fallen for me.

Because obviously she hadn’t. If she was this distraught, this completely fucked up, she would have reached out. She wouldn’t have left me in the first place.

With each stroke of my cock, I fought to forget Rylan even as her image was all I could see on the screen of my eyelids.

Each delicate inch of her soft, pale flesh. Each strand of that thick, dark brown hair, the mound of matching tight curls between her legs. That freckle on her right cheek. The mole on her left shoulder blade. The way her lips looked when she smiled at me.

Even better, the way they looked when she talked back.

I curled my hand over the head of my cock, growling as I imagined her mouth there.

“Fuck,” I roared as the muscles in my thighs clenched, pumping my fist faster as the first wave came. I didn’t need slow, sensual; this was a punishment. I drove my hips into my hand, gritting my teeth and growling through each lurch of my body as I came.

When I opened my eyes, I scowled at the mess I’d made of the wall of my shower.

As I washed ribbons of cum off the black slate tile, I vowed to forget Rylan Blake.

This would be the last time I thought of her.

The last time I came with her name on my lips.

I’d forget about her, if it was the last thing I did.

Chapter Five

Rylan

By Wednesday, I was no longer dwelling in sadness but was instead full of nervous energy. I had an interview with a boutique press scheduled for Friday morning, which I wasn’t emotionally ready for, but would force myself to attend nonetheless. Additionally, my mom had booked a flight out to visit me and would arrive Friday afternoon.

My stomach was in knots about both things.

On one hand, the interview. I needed to pick myself up and move forward with my life, but it still seemed so surreal that I wouldn’t be returning to Reed Publishing. The month I spent learning from Cabot and Blanca felt like a fever dream. Had it even happened? I missed the midday gossip sessions at various lunch spots around the city with Marisa, Hector, Marcus, and Eloise… but the worst part was knowing that I was now likely the gossip they discussed over niçoise salads and Arnie Ps.

Interviewing at a new place was the only way forward, I knew that, but letting go of my dream future at Reed Publishing was a hard pill to swallow.

And then my mom, well… that, too, was a mixture of emotions. We’d fallen right back into easy conversation during our phone call, but what if seeing her in person would be different? What if it was awkward?

In addition to this mixture of chaotic feelings, was trepidation. I hadn’t spoken to Professor Clements since Cabot dropped me off on Monday, and I needed to ask him if my mom could use the spare bedroom. He would likely say yes, but to be fair, he intimidated the shit out of me these days. He was so quiet.

Tooquiet.

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