Page 23 of Heimlock
Has it been three rounds? Time flies when you’re disassociated. Pulling off the condom, I toss it into the trash. Trying to sound kind, because she doesn’t deserve to feel like shit, I say, “Yeah. I’m really glad. Too bad I have to be at work in an hour.”
Unfortunately, she doesn’t take the hint. Again. It’s always a gamble to take someone home from the club. Now I’m responsible for kindly shoving her out the door.
She pouts, tweaking one of her nipples. “You sure you don’t want to call in sick? We could stay in bed all day.”
Faking remorse, I frown. “I wish. We have inventory reports to do.” We don’t, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Please leave.
Already, her presence feels painful. Suffocating. Yanking on pants, I flash her a smile.
She returns it, still not getting the damn hint. “I could wait here for you? Pick up where we left off when you’re back.”
Inhaling a steadying breath, I pull on a shirt. “I’m not comfortable having people alone in my apartment.” Grabbing her sparkling top, I deposit it in her lap. “Let me walk you to the door?”
She looks put out, but pulls the shirt on. I collect the rest of her clothing, delivering each piece with a smile. As she finishes getting dressed, I pad into the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee. Drumming my claws on the counter, I listen for any signs of her trying to lock herself in my bathroom or nosing through my belongings.
It wouldn’t be the first, second, or tenth time a one-night stand has tried to stay. Sometimes, it’s tempting to be a more selfish lover or to be cruel. It’s not who I am — so I’m stuck wearing this particular mask until the front door closes again.
Some of the tension in my limbs soften when she walks into the kitchen, still wearing the skimpy number from last night.
“Would you like a jacket?” I ask, pouring her a cup of coffee.
She looks down at her deep cleavage and short skirt. Taking the cup from me, she says, “If you have one to spare.”
“Of course.” Brushing past her, I grab a zip-up jacket hanging in my hall closet. It’s black, like the other eight. Ready for the next one.
“Thanks,” she says brightly. “This coffee is amazing.”
Pouring myself a cup, I hum in agreement. “Grown in the desert of Oasha.”
“How interesting.” She takes another sip. We stare at one another, having nothing else to discuss. She’s a nameless, beautiful woman who doesn’t have my number. I used to feel like shit with these overnighters, trying to get them to leave. But we met on the dance floor, kissed one another silly, and I invited her over for fun. If she has expectations beyond that, it’s not from anything I’ve said or implied.
Making a show of looking at my clock, I sigh. “Sorry to cut this short, but I need to head out.”
“Oh, okay.” Her expression wavers as I take the half-empty coffee mug from her and place it in the sink next to my empty one. “Do you want to hang out later?”
At this point, I don’t know if she’s being stubborn or desperate. Squaring my shoulders, I look her in the eye. “I had a lot of fun, but I think it’s best if we keep it a one-time thing.”
The woman looks crestfallen now, her lips drawing downward in a comical frown. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Hoping she finally gets the hint, I walk over to the front door. “Thank you for coming over.”
After zipping up the hoodie, she comes to a stop in front of me, anger replacing the forlorn attitude. “You’re being such a dunghole right now.”
Confused, I draw my brows together. “A dunghole? How?”
“B-because!” she sputters, her cheeks turning ruddy. “We … you … last night …”
I need to stop finding hookups at the club.
Cocking my head, I say, “We met at the club. We don’t know one another’s names. If I’m not mistaken, you had at least seven orgasms. I didn’t kick you out in the dead of night. I made you coffee and gave you a brand new hoodie that you can keep. Please explain to me where that makes me a dunghole.”
“You never asked me my name!” she says, outraged.
Keeping a placid expression, I ask, “What’s mine?”
Her mouth draws in a firm line. We both know she can’t answer that question.
