Page 38 of Wrong Pucking Player

The man who likes to grind my fucking gears for the hell of it.

“Your existence gives me nothing but heartache.” Those just have to be the first words that come out of my mouth as I slowly take in the tall-as-fuck chisel beast of a man.

Was he always this big? Tall? Fucking hot? Jesus Christ in Heaven, this can’t be Armani.

I keep telling myself in my mind… over and over again. Just so I won’t lust over the beast who has my heart drumming like we’re at the peak chorus in a marching routine.

Oscar Armani was always “big” but not muscled big. He was chubby, short, a bully, and hated speaking English unless he had to. The funny thing was, the reason why I knew five languages was that I enjoyed learning every insulting word possible to throw back at Armani just to grind his gears during the ‘crew days’.

English, Russian, Gaelic, Italian, and Portuguese.

I should start learning Korean to throw him off course.

The Armani I left behind with his boys was now 6’6” of chiseled hotness. His black hair was short and tousled to one side in a buzz cut. He had a five o’clock stubble clearly recently shaved, with a sharp jaw, little mustache, and light pink lips that were smoother than the typical rough ones I see on men.

Out of all the days to confront this man, he was resting his massive arms on along the door frame. His bulging biceps were tatted perfectly, both arms carrying sleeve designs I was becoming tempted to figure out their rooted meanings.

It was hard not to be distracted by the very obvious six-pack going on eight-pack happening down below, matched with the very alluring V dip that pointed to his junk that I’m sure was double that of the average man.

They say the short men have the biggest cocks, which leaves me to wonder what happens when the short men get growth spurts that make them into… this Adonis of a man.

His chest pecs are just as ripped, and what I really don’t expect is pierced nipples.

God, that had to hurt… but fuck, that’s sexy.

Across his chest was a tattoo in perfect cursive handwriting, the word tugging at my heartstrings in an odd way.

Sacrifice.

How much does one have to sacrifice in order to make it in this cruel world?

The word steals all my attention as I admire the details of the cursive design down to the very shading of the tattooed piece.

I’ve always wanted a tattoo but never really figured out what I’d permanently display on my body. I felt like there had to be some sort of significant meaning to it for it to carry rooted value to it, so that every time it caught your attention, it ignited an emotion designed only for its existence.

I even thought of going to Russia to get one, which may not sound like the smartest decision for a second-generation orphan like me. Yet, there was always a part of me that wished to go there or even Moscow and attempt to discover who I am.

In two countries my parents seemed to adore the most.

“If you like what you see Andrews,” Armani begins, forcing me out of a staring trance and has me meeting his glaring eyes in return. “Let me be the first to say I’m not for sale.”

“Hah. Funny,” I dryly reply and throw out any attraction I dared to have for this jerk face.

He may be hot—I’ll give him that much—but even after five and a half years, he’s still a douche.

“What honor do I get to see your jeweled-up nips this fine morning, Armani?” I ponder.

He looks confused at first, which makes him just a tad cute with his scrunched expression. He peers down to realize he’s shirtless, but instead of looking panicked or embarrassed, he just blinks three times and looks back at me.

“You woke me up,” he finally announces.

“I woke you up?” I repeat his words. “How did I do that?”

“The walls are thin, Andrews,” he reminds me as if I’ve forgotten. Which I have actually. “You cursing up a storm in the hall only encouraged me to investigate what could possibly be upsetting my neighbor, who’s never here.”

Oh, right!

Oscar Armani and I are fucking neighbors.

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