Page 43 of Tinder B@ng

“Was it the kids thing?” Oakley asks.

“It was a factor, yes.” Lies. It’s actually my excuse. The real reason is that I started wanting more than Kalon was willing to give. But I don’t tell Oakley that. “Anyway, we’re here, and I wouldn’t mind having some fun. Even if it’s just for tonight.” I packed for two nights, but I have yet to decide whether or not I’m going to stay for two nights. I think it’s awkward sharing a house with one of Jamie’s former conquests.

“Well, I’m glad you came, even if I accepted the invitation for you. You would have been Sad Channing all weekend, and we can’t have that.”

I shrug. “True, now hurry up so we can get downstairs.”

I’m drunk.

And Taylor hates me.

Oh well.

I rest my head on the side of the hot tub and close my eyes. Damien is passed out, and so is Gregg. And I’m positive Oakley and Sebastian are busy upstairs. That visual makes me say “Ew” out aloud, and Jamie chuckles. I open an eye and watch him stumble toward me. He’s also drunk. He switched from beer to whiskey pretty fast, and why did no one tell me whiskey went to your head way faster than anything else? God. My head is swimming, which is why being in the hot tub seems like a safe option. If I stand up, I’ll fall on my face. That would be embarrassing. “You’re girlfriend doesn’t like me,” I tell him. “She wants you to go to pound town with her, and not me.”

I think Jamie laughs, I’m not sure.

“You’re schoopid for invitin’ a girl you played hide the sausage with when you want to hide your sausage in me.” I snicker, I’m a fucking delight when I’m drunk.

“I sent her home,” he tells me.

“I d-didn’t even notice, I was too busy staring at your butt.” I laugh because in my mind, it’s perfectly okay to tell a client you were looking at his butt.

“You like my butt?” He chuckles, and the hiccups.

“Whooop, you’re d-drunk, Jamie.” I boop him on the nose and twist to face him. Both of him. I’m at the point where I feel light as air, and all my worries are floating away. My mind is blissfully absent of thoughts of Kalon. Kind of.

“What else do you like about me?” Jamie asks, brushing hair from my face.

I squint. “Your lipz, they’re poofy and peenk.”

My lips are tingling, and the longer Jamie stares at me, the more I want to find out if his lips are tingling too. He snickers and says, “My lips are tingling too, you wanna feel?”

I snort, realizing I said that out aloud. “That’s so cheesy, if you wanna kiss me, just go ahead—”

His mouth lands on mine, I think, and the kiss is wet, and sloppy, and as coordinated as a baby giraffe learning to walk. I stick my tongue out, except I’ve overestimated where his mouth is, and end up licking his stubbled cheek.

“You taste like sunblock,” I tell him.

“Can I get a do-over?” He smiles at me, and my head lolls to the side.

“If you take me upstairs, you can kiss my other lipz. They’re tingling too, and probaly taste like…” I search my mind for the right word, scrunching my nose when I can’t find one. “I dunno what they taste like.”

Jamie stands, and my brain short-circuits because holy body of Adonis. But not like Kalon’s body. Jamie has no ink, which so doesn’t count in his favor. Nevertheless, when he climbs out of the hot tub and reaches for my hand, I take it and allow him to get out. He steadies me, and after wrapping a towel around his waist, he wraps a towel around my shoulders. I follow him into the house, through the living room and up the stairs. Damien has passed out on the sofa and is snoring the damn house down. If there are noises coming from Oakley and Sebastian’s room, I don’t hear them, thank God. Jamie leads me into the master suit and shuts the door.

“Are we going to have seggs?” I whisper-hiss. “Because I really want to.” No lie. I’m horny as fuck, a terrible side-effect of being just past the edge of drunk.

Jamie strips the towel from his waist. “I need to make sure you’re not too drunk, Channing. I’m not about to take advantage of you if you are.”

I drop the towel from my shoulders and untie my swimsuit at the back. “Take advantage of me, Jamie.” Yessss, I said that without slurring or falling over! “I want you to.”

He watches me for a moment, and I don’t miss how we both sway just a little. He unties his swim trunks and slides them down his legs. I try not to react to the size of his dick, so to mask my disappointment — thanks for ruining me, Kalon fucking Ward — I strip out of my swimsuit. Jamie walks towards me, and I can’t help but notice how flacid his dick is. It’s frowning. Shouldn’t it be hard by now? I don’t say anything when I look up at Jamie; I know how sensitive men are about egos, and dicks. Those two things are not mutually exclusive. I take some initiative and push Jamie onto the bed.

“Whoa, someone’s feeling frisky.” He smiles, and he follows my movements as I straddle his lap. His dick is still soft, though. That can’t be right. I poke it, and Jamie says, “Whaa—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.” I wrap my hand around his dick and start stroking it, waiting for it to harden. I stick my tongue out, and try to concentrate. Eventually, I have both my hands around his dick, and I’m about to lean down and suck it, but I lean down too fast and land up poking myself in the eye. “Ow!”

“Channing, why don’t we slow it down?” Jamie asks, his cheeks red. Whether it’s because he’s also had too much to drink or because he’s embarrassed, I don’t know. But I’m determined to get laid.

“I can’t go any slower,” I shrug, rubbing my eye. Jamie guides my free hand up and down his still-soft dick, and when my wrist starts to hurt, I sit back. “Doesn’t look like he wants to play,” I remark, tilting my head. I flick the tip, and blurt out, “whop whop,” when it flops back down. I hold it in my hand and wiggle it, and drop another, “whop whop.”

Jamie sits up, and sighs. “Okay, I think I’ve had enough. I’m going to shower.”

“I could join you?” I offer. “Maybe that will get little dicky’s attention.”

Jamie deposits me on the bed and climbs out from under me. “That’s okay, Channing.”

I’m about to ask him to reconsider when my stomach rolls, and I jump off the bed, bolting for the bathroom. I just make it to the toilet when my stomach recoils and empties itself. Over and over again. When I’m done throwing up, Jamie is nowhere to be found. Just as well. He clearly has a case of whiskey dick and doesn’t want to admit it. I manage a hot shower on my own, and when I’m done, I change and crawl into bed. My stomach wakes me up again a few hours later, just to remind me that alcohol is the devil.

When I remember what happened with Jamie, I groan. It’s 4 a.m., and I have no idea where he slept, but I need to get the hell out of here. I text Oakley to see if they’re awake, and unsurprisingly, I get no response. I decide to pack my bag, and sneak my way downstairs, where I find Jamie’s car keys. I snatch them off the kitchen counter, slide my sunglasses on — clearly I’m still tipsy because it’s dark outside — and make as quiet a getaway as I can. I climb into Jamie’s Lexus, and pull up my address on Google Maps. Then I text Oakley and ask her to tell Jamie I’ll drop his car off at his office. I need to get the fuck out of dodge and forget last night ever happened. The drive home is somewhat perilous and takes twice as long because I have to puke every hour. It’s as glamorous as it sounds. And I’m never, ever, drinking again. Because fuck my life.