Part 16 (1/2)

As soon as the truck starts moving, I feel myself drifting. I've hit the figurative wall, and I need to pa.s.s out. I lay down across the back seat, and let my eyes close. I can hear the low rumble of Jude's voice as he talks to Rich, and some country music playing through the radio. The last thing I hear before I pa.s.s out is Jude calling my name.

”Tor.” I shake her, but she's pa.s.sed out cold.

”You want me to carry her?” Richard asks.

”No!” I'm too quick with that reply, but I don't want him touching her. ”No, just go. I've got this.” He's a f.u.c.king idiot and would probably come in his pants if her t.i.ts rubbed over his shoulder the right way.

He shrugs and turns around, heading to the house. I drag Tor across the back seat by her ankles. She's like a rag doll. Her limbs sway as I scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder to carry her inside the house.

What in the h.e.l.l am I doing? I take the stairs two at a time until I reach my bedroom. I open the door and throw her unconscious form on the bed.

She groans as her head rolls to the side. ”Jude?” she mumbles, her brows pinching together as she squints at me.

I f.u.c.king love the way she says my name. I swallow. I shouldn't have this soft spot for her. I shouldn't be thinking the things I am. ”Yeah?” I sigh.

”Where am I?” She presses her palm to her forehead. ”Oh, G.o.d, the room is spinning.”

”And of course you're gonna vomit, right? Only makes sense.” I sit her up, draping her arm over my shoulder as I help her up and cart her dead weight into the bathroom. I flip the light switch and she grumbles. Using her hand, she s.h.i.+elds her eyes from the harsh light as I plop her onto the floor in front of the toilet.

”Oh, G.o.d,” she moans, resting her forehead against the toilet seat. ”Why did you let me drink that much?”

”Let you?” I shake my head, starting to argue with her, but why bother? ”f.u.c.k, woman, you were necking tequila like it was a d.a.m.n sport.”

”f.u.c.k you,” she grumbles.

”If you throw up, then no f.u.c.king thank you.” I smile. Jesus, she's a d.a.m.n mess.

”Oh, G.o.d. I feel so ill.” Her knuckles grip the edge of the toilet so violently they turn white.

I hear her sniffle. What the...is she crying? I angle my head to look at her. Her face is scrunched up, eyes closed, lip quivering. She's f.u.c.king crying; she hasn't even been sick yet...and she's crying.

”Why the h.e.l.l are you crying?” I try not to laugh, but honestly, this s.h.i.+t's funny.

”Shut up. I hate being sick, okay?” Her entire body shakes and her shoulders lurch forward as she heaves.

I lean against the wall and watch her, not exactly sure whether to leave her or stay. After a few moments of retching, she stops, and resumes crying. When she dry heaves again, she dramatically throws herself over the toilet and her hair falls in her face. I roll my eyes, huffing as I step toward her.

”Jesus.” I squat down as I pick the sticky, damp hair off her cheek and wrap the rest of her loose hair around my wrist in an attempt to keep it out of the way. ”You don't make anything easy, do you?”

”Just-” She heaves again. ”Just leave,” she pants between deep breaths. She tries to push me away, but her movements are weak. Her face is still practically in the toilet.

”If I leave, you'll probably drown.”

”Oh, G.o.d. I think I'm dying!” She wails, tears streaking her face.

I plop down on the floor and stare at her in amus.e.m.e.nt. Is this how all f.u.c.king woman are? Dear G.o.d. They're f.u.c.king insane. ”You are not dying. Chill the f.u.c.k out.”

”I am f.u.c.king dying!”

I rub my temples. She gets nearly gutted, and this-vomiting from one too many tequila shots-has her in tears and fearing death is imminent? ”You're not f.u.c.king dying, not yet, at least,” I groan. ”What kind of f.u.c.king doctor were you? Jesus. Since when has tequila been a f.u.c.king death sentence?”

Her face doesn't budge from the toilet, but she does wave her middle finger at me. ”What would you know?” She spits into the toilet a few times. ”You're a c.u.n.t!” Her voice echoes from the bowl.

I laugh. That word on her prissy British lips turns me on every d.a.m.n time.

She sits back on her heels and s.n.a.t.c.hes her hair away from me.

”You done?” I raise a brow at her, tapping my fingers over the floor. She looks like s.h.i.+t glaring at me with bloodshot eyes.

”Come on. Up.” I pick her up and flush the toilet before walking her to the sink. I turn the water on and point to the basin. She's stumbling around like she's about to fall over. ”You gonna wash the puke off your face or what?” I ask.

I open one of the drawers in the vanity and rummage through, grabbing a toothbrush. I run it under the water, slather some toothpaste on it, and hand it to her. ”Is this what it's like to have a kid?” I groan. ”d.a.m.n. Here. Brush your teeth too.”

She takes it from me, swaying back and forth while attempting to flash me a scathing look. It's more of a drunken squint. She holds the toothbrush in her hand and stares at it like she has no clue how to f.u.c.king use it.

I wave my hands at her like a f.u.c.king orchestra conductor trying to teach a bunch of idiots to play Bach. ”Aaaand brush...”

”Why are you still here?” she moans. ”I can brush my b.l.o.o.d.y teeth. Get out!”

”Just brush your teeth, Tor.” I walk to the toilet and pull out my c.o.c.k to take a p.i.s.s. As soon as the p.i.s.s. .h.i.ts the water, she slowly turns her head, blue foam all over her lips.

Her eyes widen and her jaw drops. ”What...are you doing?”

I step back farther from the toilet, still aiming the steady stream as I smile at her. ”Taking a p.i.s.s. See?” I shake it, then put the seat back down. ”My bathroom. I p.i.s.s when I feel like it. I'm going to bed.” I grin as I peel my clothes off, making my way to the bed and flopping down.

”You're repulsive, you know that, right? I cannot believe you just got that thing out in front of me.”

I crumple the pillow up underneath my head. Will she ever shut the f.u.c.k up? ”G.o.d!” I groan.

She stumbles into the room a few minutes later with her top wrapped around her neck and her arms in the air. Is she serious right now? I shouldn't laugh, but f.u.c.k. She's like a d.a.m.n kid when she's drunk. I sigh and get out of bed, yanking the top over her head.

”I had it,” she grumbles.

”Uh-huh. Looked like you had it.” I pull a t-s.h.i.+rt from my dresser and toss it at her before climbing back into bed. ”And don't worry. I'm not watching you.” I roll over, facing away from her, and hear her stomping around as she tries to get dressed. She's mumbling to herself. G.o.d only knows what the h.e.l.l she's saying.

A few seconds later, the other side of the bed dips under her weight. I lean over and switch the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. Within minutes her breathing evens out and becomes heavy and I'm...wide awake.

Every tiny movement she makes is magnified. I'm hyper-aware of her presence, and so is my d.i.c.k. What the actual f.u.c.k have I done? I must be a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic f.u.c.ker to sleep next to the woman that only hours ago had me so hard-up I slammed her against a tree, ready to shove my c.o.c.k in her as she dry-humped me like a two-dollar hooker. She's hot, plain and simple, and my d.i.c.k seems to feel the need to remind me of this fact...often. The longer I think about having her against that tree, the harder I get. This is f.u.c.king ridiculous. My eyes trail over to her. I watch her chest rise and fall in deep swells, and I'll be d.a.m.ned, every time those f.u.c.kers move, her tight little nipples poke through the thin unders.h.i.+rt she's wearing. That sight makes my d.i.c.k twitch like it's going to explode.

I lay in the darkness, just staring at the ceiling. A few minutes ago I was dog tired, but now...now, sleep is the last thing on my mind. I reach down and rearrange my d.i.c.k. Just that brief touch has my c.o.c.k begging for more. f.u.c.k this. I climb out of the bed, my boxers pitching a tent as I stumble toward the bathroom. I leave the door cracked just enough to see her. f.u.c.k it if she wakes up. It's her fault I have this hard-on.

I lean one hand against the wall, peeking out at her as I sneak my hand beneath the elastic of my boxers, fisting my hard c.o.c.k. I imagine her thighs wrapped around my waist as I viciously grind my c.o.c.k against her p.u.s.s.y. I can almost hear the little moans she makes, practically taste the tequila on her tongue. I run my thumb over the head and it glides over the drop of pre-c.u.m. f.u.c.k. I can only imagine how d.a.m.n good it would feel to actually have my d.i.c.k in her. I give myself one long stroke and immediately feel everything in me relax. Picking up the pace, I push off the wall, turning to lean my back against it as I reach down and grab my b.a.l.l.s. I tug harder and faster, ma.s.saging my b.a.l.l.s as I think about how d.a.m.n good it felt having her all over me.

I imagine what she would look like on her knees, with those f.u.c.king lips wrapped around my c.o.c.k, my hand fisted in her hair while I f.u.c.k her face until she gags. I'm frantic at this point. My hand is loudly slapping against my lower stomach. The fact that she's completely unaware that I am beating my s.h.i.+t like it owes me money makes me even more frantic.

I barely hear her talking in her sleep. ”Jude,” she whispers, followed by a soft, feminine, incredibly s.e.xy moan. And that's it; I feel my b.a.l.l.s tighten and my entire body tenses like a coiled spring. I go off like f.u.c.king Mount Vesuvius. It's been awhile since I've been teased like this, which means s.h.i.+t goes every-f.u.c.king-where. Holy s.h.i.+t! My body tenses and jerks with aftershocks, my head slamming against the wall as I try to catch my breath.

”Jude...” she mumbles, which snaps me out of my fog. ”Please...” Her voice trails off and I can barely make out her begging, and not the good kind of begging.

I grab a towel and wipe myself off. She mumbles my name again and whimpers. I step back into the room, and climb across the bed, brus.h.i.+ng her hair from her face as I lay down next to her. She quiets and turns into my neck.