Breathless (120 page)

She was an unexpected surprise today. She had these baggy jeans and a beat-up University of Iowa sweatshirt on. Or was it University of Ohio? She was definitely a transplant, new to the city. I wondered what that huge yellow stain on her sweatshirt was. For some reason, I couldn’t stop staring at it. I couldn’t remember the last time I stared at a girl’s breasts for that long and not wondered how those breasts would feel in my hands and mouth.

But as I thought about that brunette’s breasts now, I started to wonder how her breasts would feel in my hands and how deliciously sweet they would taste in my mouth. I was instantly turned on by the thought.

Just then, an intense jolt of pleasure shot through me and my head jerk wildly back.

I was finally coming. I opened my eyes and saw that the blonde’s lips were still engulfing my cock.

I groaned in pleasure. “Fuck, I’m about to come,” I warned.

She continued to move her mouth up and down the full length of my shaft. It was clear she wanted to swallow everything I had to offer.

For some reason, I didn’t want to give her that satisfaction. Instead of coming into her mouth, I pulled out just as I climaxed, cum-shooting all over her face. I grunted as my body continued to spasm with pleasure.

When the spasms subsided, I looked down at her. She looked pleased as she looked up at me, licking my cum off her face in satisfaction.

I gave her a wicked smile and snickered.
If only she knew
.

If she only knew that I was thinking about another girl when I came—the same girl she’d felt threatened by earlier today—she would not look so smug now.

A picture of the brunette flashed before my mind again. I wished I had gotten her name. There was something about that girl that fascinated me. She was funny. She was feisty. She was everything I wasn’t used to. There was also an innocence about her—something I hadn’t seen in most of the girls I’d been with. It was enduring, almost hot.

Who is this girl?

CHAPTER THREE

Alexis

I GRABBED THE SHERWIN-WILLIAMS can of paint labeled Sea Salt and poured its gray-blue contents into the paint tray. It had been two days since I’ve moved into San Francisco, and as I looked around the near-empty studio, I realized how much I loved it. It was a small unit—definitely small compared to what I was used to in Iowa, where living space wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg, but nevertheless, I loved this tiny space that was now my home. I loved the high-vaulted ceilings, the bay windows, and the hundreds of layers of off-white paint that covered the walls from the many years of tenants moving in and out. These were the features that brought so much life and character to the studio, and these were the things I loved about this city: the abundance of life and character. It felt magical to me, like anything and everything was possible here. To me, this was a city where dreams could actually become a reality.

But what was my dream?

This was a question I’d been asking myself recently, and in all honesty, I didn’t know. Not at this moment, at least. At this moment, all I knew was that I
wanted
to have dreams—and lots of them. And I
wanted
to make them a reality.

It wasn’t until two months ago that it had donned on me that I didn’t have any dreams, that I didn’t have real goals or hopes for the future. It wasn’t until two months ago, when I walked in on Chris, my boyfriend of four years, in the middle of having sex with another girl, that I’d realized that I wasn’t living a life at all. I’d been stuck in a status quo that I created for myself—a place that was safe from the things I was truly afraid of. A place that was safe from losing the things I’d actually care about losing. A place that was safe from losing something I would love.

So in many ways, I was thankful that I had walked in on my boyfriend cheating on me. I wouldn’t deny that it had destroyed a small part of me. I wouldn’t deny that it had hurt like hell and broke my heart.

But despite that, I was truly grateful. It had been a wake-up call. It had forced me to acknowledge the truth—that I had decided to live in the small town I’d grown up in and lived in all my life for really one reason: to be close to my parents. I had stayed in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, to feel connected to my parents, who had both passed away many years ago. It wasn’t until I finally faced this reality that I realized that there was nothing really holding me to that small town, and that it didn’t have to be my home forever.

And that was how I found myself here, two months later, standing in this studio in San Francisco, thousands of miles away from my old home. For the first time in my life, I was in a city where I was completely alone, and as much as the thought of that scared me, it was also incredibly liberating. For the first time in my life, I could be anyone I wanted to be here. For the first time in the last ten years, I would not be defined by my past.

With my paintbrush in hand, I looked around my studio and felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. I was halfway done painting the studio and tomorrow I’d start my first day of work.

I’d been lucky enough to get a job as a legal assistant at Jackson & Wittman, LLP, a major law firm in San Francisco. I’d landed the job with Charlie’s help, who had some connections in San Francisco. Charlie was an old friend of my parents, and he had kept in touch and checked in on me when I’d moved in with Aunt Barbara’s family after my parents passed away. While working at an office job was not appealing to me, I was more than grateful to have a job that could pay for the ridiculously high cost of living here.

Two hours later, and midway through my second coat of paint, the intercom buzzer went off. I got up quickly and immediately felt a little lightheaded from the paint fumes. As I stumbled, I reached for the kitchen counter to regain my balance. But instead of grabbing on to the counter, my hand fell into the paint tray, causing the entire tray of gray-blue paint to flip over and splash all over me.

“Shit!” I exclaimed as paint dripped down my hair and arms. “That’s just great!”

The intercom buzzed again.

I ran over to the intercom and pressed it. “Hello?”

“FedEx,” said a man’s voice.

“Okay, I’ll be right down,” I said into the intercom.
It must be the books I ordered from Amazon.

I ran to the kitchen sink to wash off the paint from my hands and face before frantically going through my things for a change of clothes.
What a hot mess
, I thought as I hastily threw on the first t-shirt I found.

Then the intercom buzzed again.

“Hello?” I called into it as I pressed the intercom again.

“Miss, are you coming down to get this package?”

“Yes! I’m really sorry. I’m coming!” I ran out the door and down the stairs to take my package.

“Thanks for waiting,” I smiled to the FedEx man when I got to the door. “I kind of had a paint incident,” I laughed.

The man looked me up and down and made a face before chuckling. “Looks like it. Have a good day.”

“You too!” I responded cheerfully.
Why did he laugh? I thought I washed everything off.

I shrugged and then looked down at the package and smiled, quickly forgetting about the FedEx guy’s response. I loved getting packages in the mail, and I had been waiting for these books ever since I ordered them right before I left Iowa.

But when I walked past the glass doors of the bar, which faced the bottom of the staircase, I saw in the reflection what the FedEx man had laughed at. My hair was up in a disheveled ponytail and half covered with the gray-blue paint. It wasn’t until now that I noticed that I had put on the old baggy Mickey Mouse t-shirt that used to belong to my dad. He had worn it when it was cool in the ’70s, and it was now old and tattered. I still remembered the day I had found it a few years back when I was digging through my parents’ belongs. It was in a truck with a number of my dad’s things from college. The t-shirt had the type of softness that only came with a well-worn shirt, and when I pulled it out of the truck, I had caught the scent of my dad’s aftershave and memories of him flooded back to me.

I was thinking about the last time I saw my dad when I got to my front door. I turned the doorknob, and my heart sunk. The doorknob didn’t budge.

“Shit,” I said out loud. The door was locked. I dug through my pockets for my keys as needle pricks of panic spread through me.

Nothing. A wave of dread washed over me as the gravity of my dilemma finally hit me.

I hadn’t cried when I broke up with Chris for cheating on me. I hadn’t cried when I left Iowa—the only place I’ve ever known—two days ago. But as I sunk down to the ground and sat against my locked front door, I felt hot tears fall down my cheeks.

It was only my second day in a completely new city and I’d managed to lock myself out of my own apartment where I’d left my cell phone. I was over two thousand miles away from anyone I knew and I had no idea how to get around this city to find help. And the cherry on top of this mess-of-a-sundae—I was covered with gray-blue paint that was starting to dry and itch against my face, hair, and clothes.

Maybe moving to San Francisco was all a gigantic mistake
, I thought grimly as feelings of regret filled me.

Just as despair seemed to have engulfed me completely, a thought popped into my consciousness.
The bar!
I could just borrow their phone!

Feeling slightly calmer, I pulled myself up from the floor, filled with a renewed sense of determination to overcome this first hurdle I’d encountered in this new city.

I headed back down the stairs and walked through the door into the bar. A pretty, busty brunette who was wiping down a nearby table looked up and saw me. She was wearing a body-forming t-shirt with “Damian’s” written across her chest.
Wow, she has an amazing body
, I instantly thought.

She smiled. “Hi, welcome to Damian’s. Table for one or would you like a seat by the bar?”

“Um, actually neither. I just moved in upstairs and accidentally locked myself out when I came down to get a package,” I explained as I gestured at the box I held in my hands. “Could I use your phone to call the landlord or a locksmith?”

“Oh no! That’s awful, hun,” she sympathized. “I’m sure you can use our phone. You can ask the owner of the bar. His name’s Damian. He’s over at the bar right now.”

“Thanks so much,” I said thankfully as relief washed over me. I turned and headed over to the bar, where I saw a man with his back to me wiping down the bar.

“Hi. Are you Damian?” I asked when I got to the bar.

“The one and only,” the man said as he turned around.

When I saw him, my heart stopped. I noticed the intricate arm-length tattoo down his left arm—the same tattoo that was on the guy in the stairwell.

“Oh it’s you,” I blurted out. Our eyes locked onto one another and I was transfixed by his piercing blue eyes that were illuminated against his dark, bronze complexion. I felt myself shift slightly as a ripple of anticipation overcame me. Was it even possible that he actually looked even more gorgeous than he had the other day in the stairwell?

So his name’s Damian.

CHAPTER FOUR

Damian

“HI. ARE YOU DAMIAN?” I HEARD a female voice ask from behind me. Something about her voice sounded familiar—familiar enough that I felt a twitch and hardness grow against my jeans.
This must have been a good bang
, I thought.

“The one and only,” I said seductively as I began to turn around to face her, ready to put on my charm. I was surprisingly free tonight, and I wouldn’t mind a Sunday fuck session. Sundays were great for that because there was less of a chance the girl would try to stay over due to the start of a work week. The thing I hated almost more than an attached girl was a girl who wanted to sleep over and cuddle. It was called a fuck session for a reason: it was reserved for fucking only. If I wanted a sleepover, I’d be a fucking girl with a mani and pedi obsession. Cuddle sessions were for those who wanted the big C, and I’d always been clear that I wasn’t one of those fools.

I turned around to see who it was. To my surprise, it was that girl from the other day—the one with the stain on her shirt, the one the hot blonde had felt threatened by, the one who I had imagined had those delicious breasts that made me come the other night.

“Oh it’s you.” I saw her eyes move down my body as she took me in. I smiled, knowing what she must have been thinking.

“Yes, it’s me. At your service.” I gave her my signature smile. “I see my reputation precedes me.” I knew she must have heard about me, the infamous owner of this self-titled bar. Maybe tonight I wouldn’t be just imagining how those breasts taste. Maybe tonight I’d get to taste them and more. I felt the hardness grow even more.

“What reputation?” Confusion filling her eyes.

“I—” For a brief second, I was left speechless as I felt the wind get knocked out of me.
Yes, I, Damian Castillo, am speechless. What the fuck.

What reputation?
That was the last thing I’d thought she’d say and certainly the last thing I’d wanted her to say. The growth inside my jeans disappeared and I looked at her, at a loss for words.

Who is this girl?
I thought as I cocked my head and surveyed her—with clothes on this time. It wasn’t until then that I noticed that she looked like a mess—a
hot
mess, but a mess nonetheless. She was wearing some old t-shirt that looked like a mangy dog had treated it like it was his favorite bone. Her light brown hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail, several loose strands falling down her face. There was what looked like gray paint all over her hair and clothes, like she had just taken a shower in it. I instantly wondered what that’d look like—paint drizzling down her naked body—and my hardness immediately returned.

“Hello?” She broke through my thoughts. I blinked and saw her looking at me expectantly.

“What?”

“Um, you stopped responding. Are you okay?” She gave me a puzzled look.

“Oh. Right, I was just—what can I get for you?” I looked away from her, trying to think clearly.