Page 56 of Reckless Obsession

“I’m making loaded breakfast burritos,” Tyler announces. “Hurry now before Lucas devours them all.”

One thing about Tyler? He fucking knows how to cook.

“Say less,” I reply. “I’m on my way.”

❧

I’m frustrated and horny.

Yes. That’s the official diagnosis. If anyone asks, that’s what I’m going with. No elaboration needed and no follow-up questions. Please respect my privacy in this difficult time.

The hotel room is quiet in that expensive, suffocating way rich people pay extra for. Everything looks perfect, polished, and borderline sterile. Like if I breathe wrong, something’s going to lose value. I picked this place for that exact reason, which says a lot about me and none of it good.

The penthouse suite sits so high up that the city feels fake from here, just lights and movement with no actual noise attached to it. I like the distance. The illusion that if I’m far enough away, nothing can reach me, nothing can get messy, nothing can get too loud.

Yeah. That’s bullshit.

Because somehow, no matter how high up I am, my head is still louder than everything else combined.

I stare at the ceiling and stretch out on the sofa as if I’ve been wronged by existence, one arm thrown over my head, the other holding my phone like it’s the source of all my problems.

Which… to be fair, it kind of is.

I haven’t moved in a while, but my brain hasn’t shut up for a second since that call with Dante ended.

I miss you, Maksim.

I miss fucking you.

I let out a dry laugh, dragging a hand down my face.

“That makes two of us,” I mutter, voice echoing slightly in the too-quiet room.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I don’t miss him.

Let’s be clear.

I don’t miss the talking, or the way he tries to read me as if I’m some kind of puzzle he’s close to solving. I don’t miss his face, his voice, or the way he says my name like it means more than it does.

But the fucking?

Hell yes.

I shift on the couch, jaw clenched, staring at the TV without seeing shit. Dante’s good. He knows how to pound me right, read my moans, switch it up, take the reins. It’s brainless. Pure, sweaty release. It’s easy and simple with him. No thinking, no complications. Just sex, sex, and lots of sex. If this was a performance review, I’d give him solid ratings across the board.

And yet.

It’s still not enough, because my brain goes—cool, this is great… but what if it was Tristan?

Tristan.

Fucking Tristan.

Always him.

I hate how my cock twitches hard at the thought, how heat coils low and vicious in my gut. I hate that Dante’s thick cock slamming into me still feels like a pale fucking imitation of the way Tristan fucked the hell out of me that night two years ago.