16. Hayden

SIXTEEN

HAYDEN

Ten hours.

Ten fucking hours.

That's how long Elias kept me chained to my cell—I mean desk—today. My precious Saturday gone. Sure, it's only nine o'clock and the night is still young, but my spine feels like it belongs to a centenarian. And I won't even start on how strained my eyes are.

I shuffle through the front door, my shoulders sagging low, as I dangle a plastic takeout bag in one hand and my keys in the other, aiming for my bedroom.

When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I don't hold back my groan. I can already picture the drunken photo sent to our boys' group chat or blasted across social media just fine without opening it. Judging by the time, they're probably at some bar scarfing down buffalo wings, shooting tequila, and getting familiar with members of the opposite sex, before they crawl to the next place.

Unfortunately, it's hard to bar hop crippled.

I trudge down a long hallway, mumbling curses under my breath about the penthouse's size, trailing a hand across the wall for support. Juliana's nowhere to be found; there's not a peep to be heard, and darkness shrouds my surroundings, save for the city's faint gleam through the windows, the glow from the kitchen, and the sliver of light trickling out from beneath her bedroom door.

Intending to chow down on my sushi platter while cozied up in bed, I pass right by without a glance, until I notice something from the corner of my eye.

I quirk a brow at the piece of paper taped to the fridge. It doesn't take me more than three paces to recognize what it is—and who's to blame for its inception. Juliana really went to all the trouble, typed out our entire contract, printed it, then slapped it right in the center of my home???

A handwritten note reads in red ink at the bottom. Thought you could use a little reminder— smiley face. I stare at the two eyes and wide lips, taking them for what they really are.

A taunt. She's taunting me.

Why would I need a reminder? Of the rules my self-assigned nanny forced upon me? As if I could forget them, even if I tried. Which I'm not, seeing as my gaze trails down the rules, one by one, each more ludicrous and offensive than the last.

"No throwing parties..." I mumble to myself quietly, annoyance rising inside of me. "No social media posts... Sleep in separate beds... Remain romantically exclusive." My snicker rings across the empty kitchen. "Romance? What kinda guy does she take me for...?" I wonder, before all the humor dies out with the last rule, one I can't read aloud.

Practice sexual abstinence.

And right below is my own signature, now digitized for all eternity, captured by a copying machine that I don't even own.

She just loves going the extra mile, doesn't she...

I do the mental math, counting the weeks from today to DreamScape, and grimace, as if faced with the judge's hammer. My sentencing? Two months.

Two.

Whole.

Months.

Without sex.

That's sixty days. Sixty nights, without doing the dirty deed. Me, the very definition of getting more ass than a toilet seat. I don't remember the last time I've been dry for so long. It goes against my lifestyle, my very nature. I'm not even sure if my brain will still be intact by the time the days are up, if I'll be the same Hayden Kingston.

What the hell did I sign up for?

Porn sucks.

Take it from someone who lost track of his own body count years ago, porn really, really sucks. Although, maybe that's my problem—having too much experience rocking the bed with too many women, as to acutely know when one is faking her own pleasure.

Like the blonde porn star on my phone, with the voluptuous fake tits and a schoolgirl skirt. Her moans are forced. Her tone about three notches past natural. The line between her eyebrows cinched way too tight. It's not her fault, either, seeing as Mr. Nine Inch Schlong And Anabolic Steroids is barreling into her at blazing speeds, hitting her cervix with the gentle care of a jackhammer, all after giving her zero attention.

No foreplay. No oral. No fingering. No butt-play, kisses on the neck, dirty talk, words of affirmation, licking, roleplay, flicking the bean, sensual massages... Nothing. He's the man who's afraid to eat pussy, yet dares ask for a blowjob, a sexual criminal without lube who places his own needs above hers. Which leaves the woman with only one choice, if she is to enjoy such a lousy experience—turning herself on.

Hence the fake moaning.

And yes, I acknowledge that this porn star is just doing her job; she's quite literally following a script, and porn isn't an accurate representation of real-life sex, but it sure does bleed into it. Bright lights in a staged living room with a straight-faced cameraman or not, she's still having to take every teensy-weensy ounce of her pleasure into her own hands.

As someone who's unashamedly starred in more than a few home videos, there's no bigger insult, and it's, in my professional opinion, the tell-tale difference between a playboy and a fuckboy.

Rule #7: A playboy never finishes before his sexual partners.

Just ask yourself. How could a fuckboy cater to such a rule, if the oh-so mysterious and elusive clitoris isn't even on his radar?

I'll give you a hint: he's not.

To conclude my monologue that no one asked for—yes, as surprising as it may be, I hate ninety-nine percent of porn, evident not only in my surprising values on women's sexuality but also its in-effectiveness on me. And by me, I mean the absence of my boner.

Rant over.

As Miss Blondie twists into a pretzel, I watch with about as much enthusiasm as I would if she were instead teaching trigonometry—fully clothed. I sigh, propping an arm behind my head. With empty takeout containers as my sole companions, my Alaskan king feels achingly barren. More nights than not, I have company or I'm slipping between someone else's sheets entirely. But never alone.

My lips flatline at the next ridiculous position, before I make to close the video. At this rate, I'm better off using my imagination, even if my fantasies defy my better judgment and inevitably circle back to Ju—

Ding.

A text banner drops from the top of my screen.

Olivia: I'll show you mine, if you show me yours. ;)

I suck in a breath and hold. Now that's how you get my attention.

My thumb hovers over the text, as I think back to the last time I was with Olivia. It's all a hazy blur of little talk and more action, if you know what I mean, aboard a private Gulfstream G650 on route to Miami six months back for a bachelor party. It was far from my first time joining the mile-high club, and it sure as hell wasn't hers, being that she's a flight attendant and it wasn't our first rodeo.

Olivia flies all across the world, working on different planes, some private, others commercial, and sometimes we just happen to be in the same area or aboard the same jet. We must've met on a flight... two years back? I don't know. But our conversations are always kept to a minimum. In fact, we probably haven't spoken more than ten words to each other, ever, save for occasional sexting.

Zero commitment, just how I like it.

Which is why, when I finally do click the message, the photo I'm met with comes as no shock.

My eyes trail from the only visible part of Olivia's face, her wicked smirk, down to the picture's focal point—her rack. A wet white T-shirt covers her unnaturally lifted breasts, leaving only so much for the imagination. Her nipples press taut against the thin fabric, just enough to make out their shape and color.

I don't hold back my groan.

Finally. Something to help tide me over.

My shirt's off in two seconds flat, leaving me in gray sweatpants with nothing underneath. I rip off the covers, bring the camera close to my face, and aim downward, revealing my body in all its glory.

And I do mean glory. I won't sugarcoat it. My physique is incredible. Plain and simple. This photo I'm about to take looks photoshopped, in more ways than one, and I'm not even showing my face. Just my deeply defined abs, gloriously sun-kissed skin, the magnificent city view as my backdrop inside a penthouse fit for a king, and most notably, my impressively large, perfectly proportioned, raging hard co—

...wait a minute.

I blink, noting the lack of activity down there. Squinting, I turn up my phone's brightness, zoom in and out in disbelief, even sway my head to the side, inspecting with my own two eyes, only to find a flat, underwhelming bump beneath my sweatpants.

That can't be right...

I bring up Olivia's photo again, confirming that my brain does, in fact, like what it sees. Once more, I study her breasts slowly, admiring their fullness and symmetry, wanting nothing more than to watch her peel off that pesky T-shirt.

When I'm practically foaming at the mouth like some horny teenager, I pull up my camera once more, grinning when I angle it—

Hey, what gives?

I bob my head to the left, then to the right, utterly flabbergasted at what's not going on in my pants.

Can this day get any worse?

I grumble, squeeze my eyes shut, and shove the dirtiest, most filthy memories of Olivia to the forefront of my brain. Ones where I'm taking her from behind inside luxurious bathrooms, forty-thousand feet high, bending her over the sink while her pencil skirt jumbles around her waist and panties pool at her feet. Her uniform's scarf coming quite handy in covering up all the marks I leave on her neck...

A low groan escapes me, as my hand sweeps down my core, delving beneath my waistband—

My eyes snap open.

I feel around, skin on skin. Dick, balls, everything. And by everything, I mean nothing. Nada. Zip. No erection, no rocket in my pocket, bone ranger, tent pole, saluting soldier, firm worm—whatever the fuck people call it is just not there.

My pulse spikes, beading sweat across my hairline. I'm twenty-four years old, built like a horse—an Arabian thoroughbred stud, specifically—with testosterone coursing through my veins, who's got a hot flight attendant on the phone, willing to show everything...

I should be like granite. Not a wet noodle.

Do I need to call a doctor or something?

Frustrated, I click back to her message.

I'll show you mine, if you show me yours. ;)

I stare at the text, hoping her intentions will re-solidify in my mind, but it doesn't take long before my brow tightens, all my focus shifting on the winky face. Then I'm gaping at the fridge all over again, at Juliana's little smiley face, the one she added just to taunt me. She had to of... Because maybe that's her exact motive—to be a huge, irresistible tease.

Wearing tight yoga pants, bumping into me at night, purposely feeding into my touch, choosing to sleep a few doors down, when she knows all I can think about is fucking her senseless.

Now she slaps our contract in my face, yet again, when she knows, deep down, that I'd much rather see my signature on a different contract altogether. One where she's obligated to share my bed each night, then she couldn't help but give in to my advances, her perfect body offered up for me to do with as I see fit.

My first demand would be simple. No pants. Ever. Not in the bedroom, kitchen, living room—nowhere in my penthouse. She'd strut around in nothing but a cropped T-shirt and a pair of panties... preferably the scanty kind... black and lacy... with a bowtie on the front, right below the diamond hanging off her belly button...

I grunt, low and guttural, as pleasure blooms down to my toes, a dark hunger ravaging in its wake, until I'm bucking my hips up into thin air, the friction against my sweatpants tantalizing, surely the furthest cry from thrusting into Ju—

My eyes, which apparently closed on their own, pry open, jolting my entire body into a state of alert. Oh, don't tell me. Please, please, please...

I look down.

Ahh, fuck!

Hard and raging with painful need, my erection bulges against my sweatpants, poking its domed head past the waistband. Arousal pumps through me, threading desire along my every waking thought, drowning out any ounce of shame I should feel. And it's all nearly too much to handle.

I grit my teeth, forcing my hips still, as I pull out my camera. This is all just a delayed reaction—yes, yes—after fantasizing about Olivia. Oh-liv-ee-a. The girl with the tits. Huuuugeeee tits. On my phone. No other girl, no, no, no. Especially not my best friend's little—

JUST TAKE THE FUCKING PICTURE.

Squirming, I readjust and slip my tip back into hiding, then snap a photo. Like clockwork, I test out a few more angles, but in a rush, I pick one before I go full photo-shoot mode. Hitting the send button, I soar down my contacts toward the letter O. But on the way, I pause... on letter J... on Juliana Brooks.

Don't do it.

My heart beats to a mischievous rhythm.

Do. Not. Do. It, I warn those intrusive thoughts.

Or what? they sneer back.

Or... Or...

My answer should be as easy as my next breath. There are a dozen reasons I shouldn't hit send. Maybe hundreds. But they're all trapped inside clouds of a brewing storm, now downpouring atop my head droplets filled with lust and possession, fueling a need to hear the girl who made me pledge my celibacy swear off hers. A desire so deep, I can't hear my own thoughts anymore—not even the intrusive ones. So, I do what's easiest...

I let them win.

After fifteen torturously-long minutes of complete radio silence, my erection is finally—mostly—gone, and so am I.

Out of my bedroom door.

I breeze down the hallway like a puff of smoke, hot and angry, yet quiet and undetectable.

Juliana thinks she can just ignore me? Leave me high and dry? What nerve she has. What gall. Every woman in Manhattan would beg for my attention— begs, for it—every time I step out my front door.

Exhaling sharply, I swing a left.

Has she gone downright mad? The picture is immaculate, with the perfect angle and perfect lighting and an even more perfect cock, the definition of a panty-dropper. If posted online, it would've had a going rate of at least five-hundred dollars, and I didn't even show feet.

Yet, her response is no response. I anticipated a lecture, a pounding on my door, an ewwwww text laced with denial, something.

I hang another left, aware I'm going in circles, until I actually turn down her hallway, spotting a light under her door. So she IS awake. Irritated, I make for her bedroom, meaning to pound on her door, only to hear the explanation she so obviously owes me.

Creeping farther into the dark hallway, I nearly trip over my own feet, catching the wall, a foot from her bathroom door. No light shines beneath it, but something else sure does...

Sounds.

Breathless sighs.

Sweet, delicious moans.

The first taste of my new addiction.

I press an ear to the door, listening intently. When I hear the evidence of her wetness, a sheer confirmation of what I already knew she was doing, my knees tremble, quaking with restraint. Blood rushes straight to my cock, painful and throbbing, before I do the only thing that'll keep me from kicking the damn door down.

Slip a hand beneath my waistband.