Page 6 of Mad Max

I just look at her like she’s crazy. ’Cause the only hand signal for fucking I’ve seen is a fist on one hand while sliding a finger from the other into it, indicating a dick sliding into a pussy.

“Right, I’m going to go now. Bye.”

Fucking cute how she actually waves.

I wait half a beat to make sure she went into the right door before I turn to find my club brother waiting. He has his back to us, giving us a bit of privacy and watching my back all in one.

Fucking love my club.

Chapter 3 – Cheyanne

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kay, so that just happened. It happened, and I was there. I was there, and it happened.

And yet, even as I clean off the cum that leaked out of me as I walked to the bathroom, I’m still having a hard time grasping what just happened.

I had sex.

Not that it was my first time. I’ve had loads of sex. Okay, not that much. I’m not a seasoned girl by any means, but I’m not shy about liking sex and even craving it now and then. Nevertheless, I’ve never done that—the whole “fucked like a whore against a wall with a party going on” thing. It wasn’t like it was dark either. It was kitchen lighting. Bad kitchen lighting, leaving nothing to the imagination. I might not have seen anyone but the beast between my legs, but who the hell knows if anyone saw me?

Mad Max. If you fuck a guy, use his name, silly girl. Or at least what they call him.

Even as I berate myself, I don’t really feel bad for calling him a beast. He totally is. I saw Beauty and the Beast over a hundred times when I was a little girl. I know what a beast looks like, and he’s every meaning of the word. Except less hairy and no tail. Or at least I don’t think he has a tail. Never did get to see very much of him except his dick. And that thing was a monster in its own right. My homegirl between my legs is still quivering over the feel of that stretch.

I’m as clean as I’m going to get without taking a shower. I look myself over in the mirror. My makeup is minimal, and I’m happy not to see any smears and that my hair is still straight. I half expected it to be in a ball from how often I rubbed my head on the wall trying to ease the pain he was causing or to keep from begging for more. I’m still not sure which. All I know is that the sex was good. Really good.

And I’m not like the usual girls. Been told that all my life. While I might be chanting in my head about what happened, I’m not freaking out. I’m more like telling myself it happened and that I didn’t imagine it. Not like the throb still coming from my core could really hide that fact.

I had sex with someone who was in prison, who I just met at a house party. And it was amazing. No shame in that unless it sucked. Then I would be finding the nearest exit and running away. But I have no shame in saying I enjoyed it. Not that I would. Apparently, that’s not a good idea. Or that’s what my last two boyfriends told me. Commenting about how the sex being good, or bad, is just not something you do and keep a boyfriend, I guess. I should have figured that out after the first one, but sometimes I’m not that smart.

A knock on the door, followed by some chick yelling that I’m hogging the bathroom, has me heading out, waving as I go. I walk back into the main room, and before I can process things, Izzy snags my hand.

“Hey, want to play pool with us? We need another player now that Flint’s got to get back to his girl.”

“Sure.” I love pool. So much math in it, and yet I suck at it. It’s a challenge that I love to try every time, even though I know how the angles work and everything. I should be amazing at this game, but I’m not. And I love that.

Being perfect at almost everything is tiring. I like when I’m not so I can challenge myself. Sort of like social settings. I force myself into them, as I never know if I’ll come out of it with a smile or make someone cry. Which also happens a lot, and I still don’t know how it does.

“Great. You can be on Mad Max’s team. We’re playing doubles.”

If the seas could part, then God, or whoever is in charge up there, can make a path in the packed house to show the man in question as he stands beside Bulldog. Holding a pool cue in his hand, he just glares in my direction. I look behind me, then do a mini circle to see what the problem is, but I have no clue, so I just shrug, get my cue, and start chalking it up.

As Bulldog breaks, I stand by my partner and watch the game unfold. He doesn’t turn to me, but I’m not deterred. It happens a lot around me, whether I fuck the guy or not. “You any good?” I ask.

He grunts. I’m taking that as a yes.

“Cool. I play a bit too. Signed up for a league downtown last year. It was fun, but they asked me not to come back after the second meeting. I think they said they had too many players or something. Who knows. Anyhow, you want to go first or me?”

He casts his eyes my way, and there doesn’t seem to be any obvious emotion in them as he slowly lifts his chin for me to go first. I just smile as I line up for my shot.

“Ow! What the fuck, man?”

“Oops, sorry about that.” I smile as I move around the table and grab the cue ball off the ground, right next to the guy I hit in the leg with it. He looks pretty unhappy but says nothing else. Not sure if it’s due to my charming smile or the people I’m playing pool with.

After three games, not many people are close to the pool table like they were when we started. I only scratched five more times and only three hit other people. It’s a new personal record for me. At one point, Izzy began to stand behind her man, who seemed to have traveled as far away as possible from the table when it was my turn. But Mad Max never moved. Sure, he physically moved—he wasn’t a statue—but he never seemed to be too far from the table. And he was even nice enough not to ask for a new partner when several girls came up to graciously offer to let me sit out.

Once again, I’m not sure if it was because of my pool skills or if they just wanted to be close to him. I understand the reason for both. I especially get wanting to climb him like a monkey, ’cause even though we already did that song and dance a few hours earlier, I still have a very substantial urge to do it again. I know how the sex will be, so that probably helps. That and the fact that he just stands there, eyes seeming to be on everything around him, yet I still feel like he’s only looking at me, even if I never see him do it.

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