Sucker Punched (22 page)

Pressing his forehead to mine, his mouth hovers in front of my lips. I squeeze my eyes shut and grip his shoulders, desperately trying to hold onto my last thread of caution in the near violent force of his wind. 

I swallow and turn my face away as he starts to lean in. “Blake, we can’t.”

He pulls back, frowning. “Why not? I want it. You want it. One night doesn’t have to change anything.”

That’s the problem. I want more than one night.

“We can’t blur the lines like that. Things will get messy if we do.” Sex will only complicate things and they’re complicated enough with us being roommates and future godparents to his niece or nephew. Not to mention what it could do to our friendship, and I just won’t risk that.

I like Blake. I
really
like Blake. I don’t want to lose him, and I’m sorry, but I don’t see a scenario where two friends have casual sex and it doesn’t ruin everything. 

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. It looks like he’s about to unleash a litany of reasons why I’m wrong, but he doesn’t. He just locks his heated eyes on me, his jaw muscles twitching as they clench, and then he walks out of my room without saying another word.

Holy shit, my fuckin’ head. It feels like Jack Daniels took a sledgehammer to my skull while I slept. I crack an eye open, focusing on my dark room, then squeeze my eyes shut again. 

What the fuck happened last night? I remember inviting some of my boys over while Macy was at work and—

Macy.

Hazy memories float back to me and I try to piece them together.

I remember dancing with Macy last night, which doesn’t make any sense. I’m a straight man. I—don’t—fucking—dance. But I distinctly remember having her in my arms and. . .singing to her?

Shit, apparently I turn into Justin Bieber when I’m drunk.

And I’m pretty sure I kissed her last night. I have flashes of my lips on her skin and my hands on her body. But whatever happened next is one big, black void.

The bed shifts beside me. That’s when I notice the lump under the covers. It’s dark in here, thanks to my blackout curtains, but the bathroom light’s on. There’s enough light leaking out to see dark-ish curls sprawled across my other pillow. I lift the covers carefully, revealing smooth, pale skin and a bare ass that’s almost backed up to my hip.

I guess I know what happened next.

Smirking, I roll onto my side and spoon Macy. She sighs in her sleep as I bury my nose in her hair, running my hand over the curve of her hip.

I wish I could remember last night better. Did we set any ground rules? Or was this just a spur of the moment, one-time thing? 

I hope not. Being inside Macy is a damn near religious experience, and I’d hate it if out of both times I’ve been with her, I’m only able to remember one. 

That’s 50% less material I’d have for future jerk-off sessions. 

Just thinking about it has my dick growing hard. It’s caught between her ass cheeks and I grind it against her, squeezing my eyes shut as my balls tighten. 

I’m definitely gonna have to fuck her again.

Rolling away, I reach for my nightstand drawer and pull out a condom. I tear open the wrapper and drop it into the trashcan beside the bed, relieved to see a used one from last night sitting on top.

I can’t remember fucking her, but I’m sure as hell glad I remembered to wear protection. The last thing Macy and I need is to go from godparents to real parents. 

I throw the blanket off and roll the condom down my cock from tip to base, then position myself behind her. I love this fucking ass. I squeeze a cheek in my hand, imagining sliding my cock deep inside it. I seriously doubt she’s ever done anal before, and the thought of being the first to fuck her there has my dick so hard it hurts. But that’ll have to wait. Right now, I need to come. 

Lifting her leg, I set about getting her wet. I rub her clit in lazy circles, hearing the change in her breathing as she slowly wakes up. Moving my fingers south, I dip them inside her, feeling her pussy hug me like a glove. My cock throbs impatiently as she moans, so I withdraw my fingers from her wet warmth and spread her slickness around, getting her nice and lubed. 

Grabbing the base of my shaft, I’m about to guide myself inside her when she giggles and looks over her shoulder. “I take it you’re ready for round two?”

“Holy shit!” I jump back at the unfamiliar face, scrambling away until I fall off the bed. I land on the floor with a loud thud, wincing in pain as I grab my jeans and stand. Shielding my crotch, I back up until I hit the wall. “Who the fuck are you?”

Looking as confused as I am, she pulls the sheet up, covering herself. “I’m Chloe. We met last night?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Please tell me I didn’t fuck this girl last night.

Oh, God. . .

All the blood drains out of my dick as this ugly, awful feeling settles over me. I think. . . I think it’s guilt. Which doesn’t make a damn bit of sense, because technically, I didn’t do anything wrong.

Macy and I aren’t together. It’s not like I cheated on her.

Then why do I feel like such an asshole right now? Why does it
feel
like I did something wrong?

The room seems to be spinning as she quietly collects her clothes and disappears into my bathroom. I can’t control my breathing. I think I might puke.

What the fuck happened last night? How did I go from dancing with Macy to fucking some random chick?

I rack my brain, trying to connect the dots, but come up empty. I must’ve been so drunk I blacked out. It’s happened before. . .

Fuck. None of this makes sense.

Blackout drunk or not, I’d never pass up Macy for this girl. Especially since I’ve had nothing but Macy on my mind for
weeks
now.

Maybe Macy turned me down last night. Maybe I settled for this girl.

Or maybe I fucked ’em both, one right after the other.

Anxiety churns my stomach because this, too, has happened before. 

I’m Prince fucking Charming, aren’t I?

I yank on my jeans, feeling disgusted with myself as the vacuum starts downstairs. Shit, Macy’s up. There’s no way I can sneak this girl out without her seeing. 

Dread fills me as I head down to talk to her. I have no idea how she’s going to react, but one thing’s for certain: Macy’s going to
hate
me when she finds out what I’ve done.

I’m a heavy sleeper, so I have no idea how long the party went on after I went to bed. But based on the state of the living room, I’d say a while.

I feel like Moses parting the red sea of Solo cups as I wade through with my trash bag.

Not that I mind. Since Blake is being nice enough to let me stay here rent-free, I can be nice enough to clean up after his party. Plus, I feel kind of guilty. I don’t know what sort of social life he had before I moved in, but we’ve spent almost every night together hanging out. I’m monopolizing him. He probably has other friends he’d like to see,
and
this is his house, so I don’t have any room to complain.

Not that I would. Living with Blake has been a dream. 

He cleans up after himself. He cooks dinner for me on the nights that we don’t order in. And to top it off, his Netflix tastes are similar to mine, which we all know is the holy grail of compatibility tests.

The only downside to living with Blake is all the sexual tension. It’s our third wheel—the uninvited tagalong who can’t seem to take the damn hint and GTFO. That bitch follows us everywhere, and until last night, I thought we had it under control.

I don’t know what Blake was thinking, or if he even was. Alcohol’s not exactly known for its ability to enhance your critical thinking skills. But we’ve gotten drunk together before and he didn’t try anything then, so what gives?

Why is he all of a sudden trying to cross the agreed upon line? 

Sighing, I tie off the garbage bag and set it on the coffee table.

I hope things aren’t weird between us now. Should I bring it up? Or should I pretend it never happened?

A drunk hook-up between friends is never a good idea. It’s just not. I did us a favor by not going down that road. And now that he’s had time to sober up, he’ll see that. . .right?

I pray to God he sees it that way and not as me rejecting him, because that is
not
what happened. Turning him down was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

And if by some chance we do have sex again, I want it to be because we have real feelings for each other. Not the result of having a few too many.

My heart couldn’t handle a casual relationship like that with Blake. I’d get too attached and I’d end up wanting commitment, which is apparently something he doesn’t do.

I’m not delusional enough to think I can change him. Just like I’m not delusional enough to think I could change
for
him.

Once the cups and beer bottles are all picked up, I drag the vacuum out of the coat closet by the stairs. I pop in my earbuds, blast some music, and stick my phone in the waistband of my sleep shorts. Powering the vacuum on, I start running it around the couch. The monotonous rhythm and the upbeat music help take my mind off things. Pretty soon I’m dancing around the living room while I vacuum.

You know that feeling you get in the middle of an elaborate dance routine? Where you feel like you’re
slaying
it and you look fierce as fuck, so you start questioning your life choices. Like why am I not studying to become a choreographer in New York? Yeah, well that feeling just up and evaporates when I spin around and nearly jump out of my skin at the sight of Blake standing behind me.

In my mind, I was sashaying around the room like Beyoncé. In reality, I probably looked more like Napoleon Dynamite. 

I immediately tug my earbuds out and pull my phone from my waistband to turn the music off. My face heats, mostly because he just witnessed. . .
that
—in all its twirling, shimmying glory—but also partly because he’s shirtless.

Aside from the bathtub incident, he’s been no less than fully dressed around me at all times. I’m not sure if that’s a conscious decision or not, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was. 

More clothes = less temptation. 

At least that’s the way I’ve been looking at it. That’s why I always wear a bra around Blake, even when we’re just vegging out in front of the TV at midnight.

And of course, the one time he doesn’t wear a shirt is the one time I don’t have a bra on under my tank top. I thought he’d be sleeping it off, not up and at ’em at nine o’clock in the morning.

I’m tempted to cross my arms to try and cover up the girls, but that would just draw attention to the fact that I’m free-ballin’ it over here. So instead I force a smile and pretend I’m not out of breath from dancing around the room like an idiot. “Hey.”

I half-expect him to laugh at what he just walked in on, or at the very least smile, but his face is a mask of. . .nothing.

Wait, not nothing. His jaw clenches as he looks around the living room, his eyes growing hard. “You didn’t have to do this. I would’ve cleaned up.”

I don’t understand. Why does he seem so mad? “I don’t mind. . .”

His face softens before running a hand over the stubble lining his jaw. “Look, Macy, I—” His throat rolls as he swallows. “I fucked up last night.” He winces. “Please don’t hate me, okay? I didn’t mean for it to happen. Shit, I was so drunk I don’t even remember it.”

If he doesn’t remember coming on to me, then why is he apologizing? I frown at the way his eyes plead with mine, with the rushed way his words tumble out. “Blake, it’s fine. It’s not that big of a—”

Movement behind him catches my eye. I hadn’t realized anyone was still here. But the second I see the dark-haired girl descending the stairs with the previous night’s makeup smudged across her face, it clicks.

He’s not apologizing for trying to fuck me. He’s apologizing for fucking
her
.

My eyes instinctively flit back to Blake’s. I want him to deny it. I want him to tell me it’s not what it looks like. But all he says is “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”