Page 13

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I try to put all the missing pieces together, fitting them in like a jigsaw puzzle, only the pieces are distorted and blurry, making it impossible to figure out.

Did I pass out on top of that girl? Because I know I’ve done some shameful things in my life, but that would have to take the cake. It explains how I ended up on the floor. If I’d passed out on top of her, she would have had to shove me off her to free herself, and it’s not as though she would have been able to accomplish that without rolling me right off the edge of the bed.

How fucking humiliating. It’s one thing to pass out, but to have a woman walk out of my apartment without being thoroughly fucked is simply not acceptable. I have a reputation to uphold, and in one fell swoop, I risked it all.

How could I let this happen? I’m supposed to be better than that. Kinda. But the bigger question here is why? It doesn’t make sense. What does she get out of drugging me? All my shit is packed into boxes, and judging by the state of the mess around me, nothing hasbeen touched. So why?

Pulling myself up off the ground, I get to my shaky feet, and the worst pain shoots through my head with every movement. I grip the back of my tender neck and roll my head from side to side. I must have hit my head when she rolled me off the bed. Either that, or she attempted to beat me senseless. That would explain why my body feels so sore, but it could also be from sleeping on the floor. Either way, this is a fucked-up situation, and I need to get to the bottom of this.

Glancing toward my bedside table, I realize that I never plugged my phone in to charge, so I retrace my steps to the kitchen. I most likely would have tossed it on the counter after getting in from the dinner portion of what’s turning out to be the worst date in history.

I have to grip the wall to help balance myself as the fogginess in my brain refuses to go away, and as I make my way out to the kitchen, I find my phone exactly where I left it, right on the kitchen counter next to my car keys and my wallet. Then, just to make sure I wasn’t robbed, I pick up my wallet and search through it, only everything is exactly where I left it.

My TV is still sitting on boxes, along with all my other valuables, so why would the redhead bother drugging me at all? Is it some kind of twisted sport? Lowlife men have drugged women on dates for years, and maybe this is her way of trying to flip the script. It’s a weird take, but I suppose I could understand it. But I don’t buy it. I was already down to give her what she wanted. She didn’t have to drug me to get any of that.

More confused than ever, I grab my phone and swipe my finger across the screen, but it’s dead. With a heavy sigh, I make my way back to the bedroom, needing to charge my phone. In my line of work, I can’t risk having a dead phone. If a lead comes through, I need to be on a plane, ready to close that deal at a moment’s notice. There’s no time for fucking around. The second I start slipping, the next guy will be right there ready to take my place, and that shit ain’t about to happen on my watch.

After putting my phone on charge, I head to the bathroom, figuring the only way to clear this fog is to spend the next twenty minutes standing under scalding water, and as I lean into the shower to turn on the water, a horrifying realization dawns on me.

Kiara St. James knows I didn’t finish, and what’s worse, passing out cold on top of a woman means that she would have had a full night of uninterrupted sleep, and that shit is not okay.

She won.

Ha. I wouldn’t put it past Kiara to be the one to drug me simply because she would get a thrill out of it. But let’s be honest, it’s not her. She’s a lot of things. Feisty. Beautiful. Cunning. Witty. Smart. But she’s not a fucking psychopath, no matter how sleep-deprived or frustrated she is. If anything, she’s the type to let the air out of my tires or cut holes in every pair of socks I own. She’s not drugging me, though.

As for the redhead, I’m still not sure.

Fuck, why am I having so much trouble remembering her name? And that’s not a drug-induced fog problem. That problem was welland truly established long before my night went to hell, and I suppose that makes me a piece of shit. What kind of man takes a woman out, brings her home, and doesn’t remember her name?

There is one name I remember, though. And it’s a name that’s been driving me to the edge of insanity.

I stand under the hot shower until the water runs cold, and the moment I turn off the shower, a subtle groan fills the air.

My attention sharpens, and I hold my breath as though that could somehow help me hear better, when the soft, panting sound comes again. “Oh God,” that familiar tone says. “Yes. Fuck me.”

What the ever-loving fuck?

The fog suddenly disappears, and I grab my towel off the rack and whip it around my waist as I head out of the shower, needing to get closer to the bedroom wall to make sure I fully understand what I’m hearing, but I can’t be sure about anything today.

Is Kiara St. James getting off?

My heart begins to race, and the closer I get to the bedroom wall, the more evident it becomes. “Yes,” she breathes, the sound getting louder, more insistent. “Yes. Again.”

Again?Again isn’t something you ask for when you’re by yourself. It’s just something you do. Which could only mean she’s not alone.

Hmmmm. Interesting. I’m almost disappointed. I would have loved to hear how she makes herself come. Would have loved to hear the way her breath caught as she got closer, the way she cried out my name, because let’s be honest, I’m all she’s been able to think about.But now knowing there’s some random man in there with her . . . fuck, it ruins the fun of it. It doesn’t make me any less curious. Am I still desperate to hear the way she explodes, even if it’s not done by her own greedy fingers? Fuck yeah, I am.

Kiara’s soft pants come faster when the sound of her bed creaking fills the air. She laughs, and a sudden bang sounds through my apartment, almost as though somebody just threw her down against the bed. She laughs again, a soft, subtle laugh, before the sound is quickly swallowed by desperate moans.

I find myself listening for far too long when it occurs to me that I’m only hearing one voice. Hers. Where’s this dude? Is he awkwardly silent? A mute? Does she have a ball gag shoved in his mouth? Surely he would grunt around it, right?

“Oh fuck,” she groans just as I hear a body being slammed against the wall. “YES!”

The sound comes again and again, and I drop to the edge of my bed, really breaking it down. Something doesn’t feel . . . natural about it. There’s nothing rhythmic about it, just straight forward banging against the wall. No other sounds to come along with it. No shuffling of feet on the ground. No elbows accidentally ramming back against the wall. No clap of his balls against her sweet little cunt, and I find myself laughing.

Fuck, she’s in there alone. This is a performance, and she almost had me. But if anybody knows the ins and outs of sex sounds, it’s me. Hell, I’d bet everything I have that she’s not even touching herself.The whole thing is fake. She’s probably scrolling social media while throwing herself against the wall. But hell, she did mention that she’s into aerobics now. Who knows, this might be a part of her new exercise regime.