Page 57 of False Comeback

And of course, my mind went to Vince.

It usually did.

I hated how much I thought about him.

I hated the way I responded to him.

I hated him.

My hand slipped further down, fingers trailing over my stomach.

I hated how eerily dark his eyes were. Intense. Unfathomably black. And I hated that his long, greyish-black hair looked like it shouldn’t be soft—I was sure he hardly ever brushed it—but it was. I remembered feeling it that night in my dressing room, after our first match.

And his skin was smooth. Cool to the touch. He smelled like petrichor—the scent of earth after rain. Fresh and comforting. I hated that too.

And I’d hated how his body had felt pressed up against mine while we were grappling in the arena last week. I’d hated the things he’d said to me. The things he’d called me. I’d hated how hot his mouth had felt around my cock, how his long tongue had teased me, how his finger had felt inside me.

I’d hated it so much.

Lazy pleasure shot through me, and I realised my eyes had drifted closed, and my fingers were now sliding over my cock where it lay throbbing on my belly. Weak panic shot through me, but I decided to keep my eyes shut and pretend it wasn’t happening.

I wasn’t touching myself to thoughts of him. I wasn’t.

I was just drunk. Drunk people did stupid things all the time.

A shudder rippled down my back when I curled my fingers around my prick and stroked, hips rising in the bath and sending water lapping at the sides of the tub. I was slippery from the bath oil, and it wasn’t long before I was pumping my fist in earnest, my breaths shallowing as my head tipped back.

Memories of each encounter with Vince raced through my head, a blur of remembered touches and sensations and words. His cock choking me in the backstage area, long fingers gripping my hair tight. His lean body grinding against me in my dressing room and his thumb playing with my piercing.

His strong hands tying my wrists together above my head in the ring, and his tongue and teeth on my skin. His mouth sinking over my cock, his finger pushing inside me. His low, rough voice calling me a slut. Telling me he was in charge. Putting me in my place by making me apologise and thank him.

A strangled sound left me as I almost came, but I whipped my hand away from my cock and opened my eyes, breathing fast.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t get myself off because of him. Then it would become… something else.

I climbed unsteadily out of the bath, ignoring my aching cock, and dried off as I brushed my wine-stained teeth and gulped down some water from the tap. I swayed a little as I made my way to the bedroom, and when I climbed into bed and lay back, my head swam and the room spun slowly.

My cock was still stiff and throbbing, every tiny movement I made dragging it against the sheet and making my breath catch. I found my hand creeping back down, heart beating fast, and I sank my fangs into my lower lip as I started stroking again.

I didn’t want to come because of him. To thoughts of him.

He’d made me come himself, twice now, but that was different. That wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t help it if he was grinding against me or sucking my cock. Those orgasms weren’t the same as me lying alone in my bed, imagining him between my thighs, my hands restrained, my legs spread wide while I was totally helpless.

I whined and slid my heels over the mattress, spreading my legs wider as I started pumping my cock faster, my breaths panting out of me now. My other trembling hand reached down to slide between my legs, rubbing my hole like he’d done in the arena. But it wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel the same.

I concentrated my strokes at the head of my cock, jerking it fast and tight, but the orgasm remained just out of reach. Wetting my finger, I slid the tip into my hole and clenched around it, picturing Vince gazing up at me as his tongue wound around my cock. A strained sound left me, my fist now a blur, but the orgasm still hovered on the edges and I couldn’t seem to tip over.

With a frustrated groan, I stopped and let my arms flop onto the bed, the ceiling spinning when I stared up at it, bleary-eyed.

It was because I wasn’t tied up. That had to be it. The helplessness, the total lack of control, those were the things I’d enjoyed. Not the fact that it was him.

Rolling onto my side—almost rolling too far and faceplanting the mattress—I pushed up on an elbow and peered drunkenly around my dark bedroom. Maybe I could somehow construct something to tie my hands together and—

No, that was a terrible idea. Even if I wasn’t drunk.

My bleary gaze landed on my nightstand. Specifically on the phone resting there.

Too pent up and miserable and drunk to really think about what I was doing, I reached for it.