Sex Addict (2 page)

“A memento, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” she said.
 

He grabbed it before his brain could tell himself to fuck off. This was a woman who knew the power she could wield over a man. Over him.

Not that he’d ever let her. Or anyone.

He walked her to the door of his condo, and instead of opening it, he couldn’t stop himself from pressing her against it, gripping her firm ass in his hands, and tasting her one last time.

That wasn’t like him. To linger, to hold on to a fucking keepsake.
 

He’d burn that bra later—after he’d covered every inch of it with his come.

CHAPTER TWO

HE LOOKED LIKE hell.
 

So bad, in fact, that he’d been avoiding mirrors, not wanting to see the progressive downslide his emotional issues were physically taking out on him. But this morning, he’d accidentally caught a glimpse, and it had scared the shit out of him.
 

He knew he was an attractive guy, and the last time he’d looked while shaving had confirmed he hadn’t lost that part of himself yet. Everything else in his life, yes—but not that.
 

However, now...the haggard expression, the bags under his eyes, the longer-than-usual strands of chestnut hair sticking up wildly, the unkempt stubble around his mouth... Those things hadn’t been there days earlier.
 

Blondie never would’ve looked at him twice if they had.
 

That woman...
 

It’d been two days, four hours, and twenty-six minutes since she’d left.

He remembered that not because she’d been the most delicious pussy he’d devoured in recent memory. No, he remembered because that’s how long he’d gone without finding another warm hole for his cock. At least that’s what he’d told himself.

“Christ.”
 

He rubbed the hair covering his jaw and opened the medicine cabinet, leaving it hanging wide so he wouldn’t have to look at his sad reflection again. There should’ve been a spare bottle of lube in there. Last night, he’d finished off the full-size lotion he kept in his bedside drawer, and there was no way his cock could handle another dry rub with it as tender as it was from the hours of abuse he’d inflicted upon it.

But…fuck. It wasn’t there. Did I use it? He couldn’t remember, and the ache and longing below his waist were starting to rise. If he showered, he’d lose her scent—the one that had sent him on a seemingly never-ending, days-long climax.
 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the voice of reason telling him to stop, that he’d had his fill. His body said otherwise.
 

The sound of his cell phone ringing brought him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t bothered with it in days and was surprised it wasn’t dead by now.
 

Venturing to the hallway, he found it in the last place he’d left it—in the back pocket of the pants he’d been wearing the night Blondie had broken the zipper in her haste to get them off him. Her hands had been too eager, her greedy fucking mouth not waiting to get to the bedroom before consuming him.
 

Stop. Stop thinking about her unless you have your fucking cock in your hand.
 

He hit the answer button on his cell without bothering to glance at the screen.
 

“Am I speaking with Mr. Evan James?” a brisk, female voice asked.
 

He looked then at the caller ID, not recognizing the number. Not yet destitute, he figured it wasn’t a bill collector.

“It is,” his voice grated, hoarse and unused. He cleared it and answered again. “This is Evan James.”

“Mr. James, I’m calling on behalf of Kelman Corporations. They received your inquiry and portfolio and would like to schedule a meeting with you for tomorrow at nine.”

He thought back to the dozens of résumés he’d sent off months ago, back when he had given a damn. The name of that company rang a bell. He thought he remembered that they handled financial planning for several Fortune 500 companies, but he couldn’t be sure without looking back at his notes.
He’d been so focused on the other issues at hand that acquiring a job had slipped to the bottom of the to-do-list.

Evan kicked the pants into a pile in the corner of the hallway
 
and grimaced. He knew he’d be a fool for even considering not taking them up on a potential offer, but lately, he’d been accused of being much worse.
 

When he didn’t immediately answer, she prompted, “This is the Evan James that submitted—”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, rubbing his forehead. “Nine tomorrow would be great.”

“Good. You’ll be meeting with Mr. Kelman and Ms. Spencer. A pass will be left for you at the front desk security check-in, and they will direct you to our office on the twelfth floor. We look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning.”

“Thank y—”
 

She hung up before he could acknowledge that he’d be there.
 

Ah, shit.
 

He tossed the phone on the couch and began pacing, his fists in his hair. This was what he wanted. Wasn’t it? What he’d been trying to get back on track for the past eight months.
 

Grateful. That’s how he should have been feeling in that moment. Thankful beyond belief that anyone would want him to join them even with knowing the messes he’d made, the lives he’d ruined. He should be on his knees doing Hail Marys or whatever the fuck religious people did.
 

But his first thought hadn’t been one of thankfulness. No, the first thing that’d run through his mind was how many times he’d be able to get himself off before he had to wash her away. Before he’d have to find someone else.
 

If he was honest with himself, he was fucking exhausted. But he knew that wasn’t enough to stop from repeating the cycle.

* * *

HE WAITED UNTIL after dark, until the last possible moment, before he showered. Slowly and with light strokes at first. Then more vigorously, rubbing the skin raw where he scrubbed it. He needed no trace of the last woman to touch his body as he sought to mark himself with the next.
 

Once he was satisfied, he shut the water off and wrapped a towel around his waist. It didn't take long for the naked feeling of isolation to envelop him like a cold fist around his heart. Then he threw on a pair of dark jeans and a black shirt, ready to get to the action, and made his way out the door just after ten thirty.

The night was warm, a faint taste of the ocean in the air, as he walked the three blocks to catch the L train heading toward the East Village. With an abundance of dive bars, it was his go-to neighborhood when he was looking for a quick fix.
 

He chose the last subway car—like he always did when he was on the prowl—and as he stood there holding on to the overhead bar, he caught the reflection of the man looking back at him through the grime-covered windows.
 

His face had a reckless look about it. Reckless—but amped. An anxious energy was building in his veins, gearing up for the hunt, ready to conquer. He closed his eyes, picturing a head dipping between his thighs, and could feel himself growing hard.
 

It wouldn’t be long now. He could wait. Unless...

His eyes flew open and he surveyed the almost-empty car. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go that far after all. The lone woman on board seemed to be in her mid-forties and engrossed in a novel, not bothering to look up even though he was sure she could feel his eyes on her. As the train rolled to a stop, she stood up, with not so much as a glance at him as she brushed by and walked out.

He sighed and looked around again, hoping someone new got on. A young, waifish guy in the corner caught his eye; he’d obviously been watching his perusal. They locked eyes for a moment, and Evan briefly considered taking the guy up on the challenge he was issuing. He’d never been with a man, never had to, but he wasn’t looking to fuck tonight. The guy had hands and a mouth, and that was more than enough to ease the ache in his balls.
 

But as quickly as that thought entered his mind, the inner fucking voice of reason shut it down. He wasn’t that desperate. Not yet. There was a world of pussy
out there, and it wouldn't be hard to find a woman to get on her knees.
 

When the train reached his stop, he gave a slight shake of his head at the guy before looking away and exiting the car.
 

* * *

EVEN FOR A weeknight, the bar was packed. It was one of the seedier places on this corner, the clientele of a rougher sort and only there for the two-dollar beers and occasional bar fight.
 

He didn’t bother grabbing a drink; alcohol only fogged his mind, and he liked keeping those memories so he could use them later. He also wasn’t in the mood to waste time. There would be no hotel room, no bringing anyone back to his place. A mouth or a hand would suffice, and at this point, he didn’t give a fuck if it happened right here in the middle of the bar.
 

He made his way to the old jukebox in the back corner of the room, which had always proved to be a good spot for his pickups. Single, lonely women loved to pour their hearts out via song selection, making it the prime spot for exactly what he was looking for.

There was someone there now—she was short, perfect for the position he had in mind, and to say she was curvy was an understatement. Her black hair was angled in a severe cut that stopped above her shoulders, and it showed off the ripped tank top she was wearing with only a bra underneath.
 

That was a woman who was begging for the slide of his cock down her throat. He almost wondered if he should find someone a bit more challenging, but the insistent throb in his jeans proved that she’d suffice.
 

Pushing his hands in his pockets, he rearranged his cock before coming to a stop just behind her.

“Interesting choice,” he said, peering over her shoulder and eyeing her selection. A melodramatic tune that could only mean one thing. “Bad breakup?”

She whipped around, a ‘fuck off’ on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it back when she got a look at his face. He watched as she straightened, her eyes quickly looking him up and down as she self-consciously tugged on the hem of her shirt.

“Maybe I just like the song.”

 
“Or maybe some asshole broke your heart.”

A blush crossed her full cheeks when he flashed what he hoped was a charming smile. “Is it that obvious?”

 
“A song called ‘Love Hurts’? Nah. Not obvious at all.”

When she laughed then, he knew he had her. He wouldn’t even have to bother with the formalities of buying her a drink, and for saving himself a Hamilton, he mentally patted himself on the back.

“He must be an idiot, that guy.” He leaned down closer to her ear to lay it on thick. “You’re sexy as fuck,” he said, drawing out the last word, letting his nose oh-so-slightly graze her neck before pulling back to catch her reaction.
 

Her flush had deepened, and with the way her chest was heaving, he’d have bet his condo that she was instantly wet.
 

Oh yeah. Putty in his hands.
 

Within ten minutes, she’d followed him outside and into the alley beside the club, tightly clutching the back of his belt loop. Lust must have been clogging her brain, because following a stranger out there was a stupid move on her part—but one he was grateful for at the moment.
 

He walked her farther down, past a dumpster that would serve nicely for blocking them from curious passersby on the street. Not that he would’ve given a fuck who saw what was about to go down. Or, rather, who.
 

Pulling her around in front of him, he grabbed her plump ass in his hands and walked her backwards. She sighed in pleasure until a breeze blew through the alley and the stench of garbage wafted past. Then she gripped his arms and peered at their surroundings, her expression turning to one of disgust. Broken beer bottles, used condoms, and food wrappers lined the alley, but he barely gave them a glance, too intent on satisfying his hunger.

“Are you sure we can’t wait for the bathro—” she started to say but stopped as her back hit the brick wall he’d backed her into.
 

“I can’t wait for you that long,” he said, rubbing himself against her, letting her feel how hard he was. Her protests immediately ceased.
 

“Oh...fuck,” she groaned as he sucked her neck and moved one of his hands to her breast. She had more than a handful to play with, and though he hadn’t intended on giving tonight, he couldn’t resist pulling her shirt down to take a hard nipple into his mouth.

Her breath hitched, and one of her hands came up to hold him there, urging him to keep sucking away at her, but he wasn’t about to let her take control. Grabbing her other hand, he pushed it down to cover his rock-solid length, showing her exactly what he wanted. She rubbed her palm up and down, keeping the pressure steady as he flicked her nipple with his tongue. When she cried out, she squeezed his cock, and he broke contact and pulled away to unfasten his jeans.
 

“Put your hand down your panties,” he rasped, taking his cock out to stroke himself.
 

She looked down at his pumping hand and then back at him in confusion.
 

He brought his face closer to hers. “I want your fingers in your pussy,” he said in a low voice. “Get ‘em nice and fucking wet. And then I want them around my cock.”
 

Her fingers shook as she reached down to draw up her skirt—whether from nerves or anticipation, he didn’t give a damn. As her skirt rose, he noticed that her large thighs were bare, covered only in sparrow tattoos that began at her hip and wound their way around her legs. The material continued to rise until it bunched at her hips and left pink, cotton panties exposed. It didn't faze him that they were probably the least attractive pair he’d ever seen. He only cared about the fact that they were soaked the fuck through. Her hand dipped inside the fabric, her eyes never leaving his face.