Page 13 of Gator

Picking up my pace, I plunged my dick deep into her moist cunt and let loose a cry that would disturb the wild as I unleashed a torrent of cum deep into her pussy.

I wish I could say that’s where our story began, but it wasn’t, because the second my dick slipped from her cunt, she turned around and slapped me across the face, screaming, “You bloody fucking Cajun! I’m not on the pill!”

And just like that, my dick deflated.

I stayed long enough to watch her take the morning-after pill and after I presented her with a box of condoms, she just glared at me and threw me out.

In the days that followed, I tried calling Devlyn, texting, even sent her a Sing-a-Gram, but when the stubborn woman sent a New Orleans police officer to my bar, informing me I was to stay the hell away from her, I finally got the hint and moved on.

Too bad my dick never got the memo, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get that feisty, stubborn woman out of my head.

“You okay, boss?”

Looking over my shoulder, I nodded at Juju. “Yeah, man. I’m good.”

“She’s gonna be a hard one to tie down.”

Sighing, I turned back to the window. “I know.”

Chapter Six

The next morning, two days before the wedding...

I rolled over, stretching as I opened my eyes to find Donut curled up next to me, hugging an empty bottle of Hell’s Breath, a whiskey so potent it should come with a hazmat suit, as he sucked his thumb in his sleep. Thirty-five years old, this guy. Thirty-five and still thumb-sucking his way through a hangover. The sheer audacity of it all was almost impressive.

Rolling my eyes at the grown-ass man-child, I sat up and moaned, my voice a gravelly whisper. “Well, at least you got your skivvies on this time,” I muttered, the words somehow sounding both weary and impressed.

Last time, it had involved a strategically placed throw pillow and a well-placed hand.

Don’t ask.

Seriously, don’t.

Rubbing my hands down my face, I surveyed the battlefield—er, the room.

Empty whiskey bottles littered the floor like fallen soldiers after a particularly vicious whiskey-fueled war. My brothers, in various states of inebriation and undress, were sprawled acrossthe furniture like casualties of a particularly boozy game of twister.

Thore, bless his artistic soul, had somehow managed to drape himself over a taxidermied raccoon, creating a bizarre tableau that could only be described as “rustic nightmare.” Braveheart, bless his simple heart, was snoring with his mouth open, a half-eaten bowl of chili precariously balanced on his chest—a culinary feat rivaling any Olympic gymnast. Worm, the perpetually unlucky one, was hogtied to a bar stool with the word “Nerd” written on his forehead in what looked suspiciously like lipstick (Juju, no doubt).

And Juju? Well, that crazy sonofabitch was asleep naked as the day he was born, with an itty-bitty hand towel strategically and hilariously inadequately covering his erect Johnson.

“Guys,” I said, my voice echoing in the strangely silent aftermath of the previous night’s chaos. “Anyone want to explain the raccoon situation?”

Silence.

Then, a muffled groan from Braveheart, followed by the chili bowl tipping precariously before finally tumbling to the floor with a satisfying splat. “Nope,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and chili. “Not my problem.”

Donut, stirred by the chili incident, let out a loud, hiccupping sob, clutching his empty whiskey bottle tighter like a security blankie. “My thumb... hurts,” he mumbled, his voice a slurry of whiskey and self-pity.

“Your thumb?” I replied, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. “Dude, you’re thirty-five. You should be able to handle a hangover without resorting to childhood comfort objects.”

“It’s therapeutic,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, thumb still sucking.

“Therapeutic? You’re a grown ass man cuddling an empty bottle of whiskey while sucking your thumb!”

“It’s... a coping mechanism,” he grumpily insisted, before rolling over and snoring again.

Getting to my feet, I stretched, yawning loudly as I scratched my stomach. Needing coffee and possibly therapy, I stumbled my way to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door—what was the point? It wasn’t like any of my brothers hadn’t seen my dick before.

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