Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I just wished it didn’t feel so bloody hard.
I also wished I hadn’t broken enough to leave my dirty knickers tucked under his bedcovers when I’d been zipping up my case and bailing on his bedroom. Because why? Why would I leave a parting gift like that, knowing full well it was one of his drive you crazy fetishes?
Because I wanted to drive him crazy.
Because I’d always wanted to drive him crazy.
Even half as crazy as he drove me.
I should have felt better as Cheltenham pulled closer and normality pulled closer with it, but I didn’t. I was still a mess from his flesh on mine, and his tongue in my mouth, and his fingers digging tight on my scalp. I was still a pool of want with my pussy still dripping for another fill of his dick.
There were so many things we hadn’t gotten to. Toys still to play with, and filth still to explore. An ocean of repeat performances stacked up and looming with no chance of expression.
Turns out that one night isn’t enough to fulfil a decade of need. Who’d ever have thought it? Not this little moron with her stupid notion that this could have ever been a sane enough move to skip right away from. I scrolled through my messages, contemplating using the last of my battery on a confession text to Nicola, to seal my fate and push this crazy night aside for ever. My thumb was paused over her name and Cheltenham was just a stop away when a ping tried to seal my fate in an entirely different direction.
Thanks for the panties. Tennis this p.m.?
And there it was. A picture to follow. My knickers around his dick. His magnificent dick with the precum glistening.
Fuck you, Lucas Pierce and your perfect manhood.
Fuck you, clitoris, and your idiot needs.
No tennis, I fired back. And no more dick pics, please.
My brain tried another bullshit argument, shouting to my pounding heart that this would truly be a game of tennis. Just us on the court with me trying to kick his ass and failing miserably.
Maybe I’d manage to break his nose with a super strong serve and gritted teeth. That would be a game worth playing.
Scared of getting thrashed? he replied. I’ve still got your racket, btw.
There was a burn with that. A weird little burn I couldn’t place.
My racket.
I remembered the pink flash on the handle. The way it felt when I would spin it in my hands between serves.
Surely, I could check out my racket one last time? Surely, it wouldn’t have to mean the world to share a match on a Sunday?
But it was about more than the racket or the memories. There was something bursting in my chest. A stranger over the years, so long buried that it brought a stranger of a smile to my lips along with it.
Fun.
It was fun.
I was having fun.
Not scared of getting my ass kicked, I replied, and I meant it. I might well kick yours, asshole.
I clicked on a smiling emoji and sent that off to follow.
Show me then, he said.
And I could. I could remind him just how fierce I battled when he summoned the spark of fight. Just one game to revisit another great snippet of the great life I thought we’d been living together until he chewed my heart into nothing.
Tell me when and where, another ping followed up, and I cursed myself out loud as I used the final few battery percent to look up the sports clubs on the city outskirts and pull up an available court. I cursed myself again as I fired off the details, and trusted he’d got them when my phone blinked out.
And then I made my way home for a shower of shame and the terrible travesty of another looming Lucas Pierce experience.
Chapter Eight
Lucas
I dug the rackets from the case above the weed killer in the garage and wiped them down. Still fit to serve. I hadn’t played tennis in years, barely venturing near a court since Millie was born, but the rackets felt familiar in my grip.
Just like Anna. She’d felt plenty fucking familiar in my grip.
It didn’t matter that I’d busted an ocean of seed from my balls the night before, and another round into the dirty lace of her panties just a few minutes previous. I was still craving. Still strung tight with filthy lust for the filthy little bitch who knew my cock even better than I did. The strung rackets bounced off my palm, mirroring my tension.
If I couldn’t claim her tight little ass in my bed that afternoon, I’d damn well claim it on the tennis court.
I took the dogs out before heading into the city, taking the time to stretch my legs and pick up into a jog to get my limbs in gear. I was washed and dressed for the game, well stocked up on a brunch of poached eggs before jumping in the truck and setting off. I fired up the stereo and put on some usual radio chatter, but my mind was nowhere on the voices spouting on.