#Chapter41
I wasn't a gentleman. I didn't need to buy a girl dinner and hold doors open for them to fuck them. Most of the girls I had fucked, besides Delilah, had been quick one night, drunken things where neither of us had even known the others name.
This was an improvement; I knew her name.
Yet, something was wrong. Something wasn't quite right.
One hand had her leg pinned to my waist, pressing our business areas as close as the layers of clothing that separated us would allow, and her mouth was on mine, spreading the bitter taste of sour cherry and lip balm. We were grinding. She was dropping kisses, moaning like a little slut and telling me she needed it and all that shit. . . . but something was wrong.
/"Fuck,/" I said, pulling back. As I stepped back, wiping my mouth, scowling at my junk, who decided it wanted to play the limp noodle game, I squeezed my eyes shut. I wished I could have blamed hormones. I wished it were that simple.
