God, I’m an asshole.

“Beth.”

“Please don’t,” she begs, brushing her hand over her cheek as she straightens. She looks so fragile right now, so different from the version of her I remember last night. The woman who held me together when I was slowly unraveling.

She faces away from me, reaching back to secure the hair off her neck.

A current runs through my veins as a burst of images flash in front of my eyes.

Beth on her knees. My hand fisting her hair. Her eyes, wild and willing, holding me over her shoulder.

Holy shit.

Her movement snaps me alert.

“Whoawhoawhoa, wait.” I reach for her to stop her from leaving, grabbing her wrist before she gets away.

She keeps her head turned toward the wall, but I can see the tears falling freely down her cheek.

I hate this. She shouldn’t be crying.

“Wait, I . . .” My next words get stuck in my throat as a wave of nausea rolls through me. My other hand flattens against my stomach. Oh, fuck. “Shit, I’m going to be sick.” I release her arm and dart for the bathroom, launching myself at the toilet. Bile rises in my throat as my knees hit the tile. I barely lean over before the contents of my stomach are ejected into the bowl. My head throbs. My throat burns.

“Beth! Don’t leave!” I yell, seconds before another bout hits me, then another. It’s never ending. Sweat pools at the base of my neck, soaking my hair. My forearms burn as I support my weight. I try and stand, but a roll of my stomach hunches me forward again.

Fuck! I need to talk to Beth.

We had sex last night. Unfuckingbelievable sex, if her marked body and that tease of a glimpse I just had are any indication. And that’s all I remember?

Are you fucking kidding me, universe?

The woman I’ve been obsessing over gave herself to me, I have no idea what all we did together, and now she’s crying, and my head is stuck in a toilet?

Molly. That stupid bitch is responsible for all of this.

I push off from the floor when the cramp in my gut seems to settle. After rinsing my mouth out in the bathroom sink, I walk back out into the bedroom, expecting to see Beth waiting for me where I left her. The room is empty.

“Beth!”

I check the second floor and then take to the stairs. Pausing at the entrance into the living room, I look around and question whether or not I was too drunk to feel an earthquake last night. Lamps are turned over. Pictures are hanging crooked on the walls. My couch seems to be at a different angle to my TV.

Holy shit. We had sex all over this room. And we really utilized the entire floor plan.

I move in the direction of the kitchen, stepping over my clothes from last night that are scattered about.

“Beth?”

I turn the corner and freeze in the entryway.

The chairs are pushed back away from the table, with one specifically placed in front of the large, antique wall mirror I have hanging. I don’t need two guesses as to why it’s there. Forcing Beth to watch herself ride me has been a recurring fantasy of mine. I’m sure it was amazing seeing her like that. I imagine it was, since I don’t fucking remember it.

I step further into the room and shove the chair aside. Items from the fridge and cabinets litter the counter, and some of the floor. Lids have been left off the honey and chocolate sauce. The whipped cream is warm when I wrap my hand around the tube. My cock hardens at the thought of eating any one of these off Beth. I look down at the lucky bastard, tenting my boxers.

“I’m surprised you don’t need a fucking cast.”

A car horn sounds, pulling my attention up.

Beth.

It’s like a minefield getting down the hallway to the front door. I step between pillows, books, my phone, which I palm as I move past it. The door is pulled open just as a cab pulls away from the house.

“Beth!” I yell, stepping off the porch and onto the small pathway. The car continues down the street.

“Fuck!”

My free hand grips my hair, still slick with sweat and the water from the tap. I take a look around to make sure none of my neighbors are out. I’m usually not chasing women out of my house wearing only a pair of boxers. They’re normally getting shoved out the door, and I’m fully clothed.

I head back inside and slam the door. Kicking shit out of the way this time instead of bothering to step over it, I clear a path for the couch and sit down. My shoulders roll forward as I pull up the contact list on my phone. I place it to my ear, while my other hand cradles my head.

“Come on. Pick up.”

Two rings, then the call goes to voicemail. That means she forced it to voicemail. I call again, this time it doesn’t ring at all. Her soft voice hums against my ear, asking me to leave her a message. I drop my head back against the couch.

“Will you call me, please, so we can talk about this? I don’t like that you left here upset.”

I disconnect the call and toss the phone.

Keeping my head back, I let my eyes fall closed as I try and put together more pieces of last night. Nothing new appears, and I try harder, squeezing my eyes so damn tight I swear I strain a muscle in my neck. The same images circle in my head. Nothing past Jim Beam, and Beth sitting and talking next to me at the bar. I can’t hear anything she’s saying to me. I have no idea what we talked about, but in those flashes she’s smiling. Always smiling at me, like I’m giving her something amazing just by listening. My eyes open and I stare up at the ceiling.

This is fucking infuriating.

I’ve had her. My hands know what her body feels like, all that softness underneath my palm.

My mouth has tasted every inch of her skin, that I’m fucking sure of.

My cock has been buried inside a woman bare for the first time in my life, but it’s as if it never happened.

None of it, except for what I was lucid for at the party. I could’ve done shit with Beth I’ve never done before, and I wouldn’t know. I might not ever know it if she refuses to call me back.

I reach for the phone again, but stop myself mid-way.

Shit. I’m losing it. Losing. It.

Maybe not talking to her is a good thing. Maybe not having all of these images in my head of every way I’ve experienced her is a good thing. I’ve already jacked off more in the past week than I have in my entire life. Thinking about Beth’s mouth was already an obsession. Now I have that wicked little hand of hers to throw into the mix. Adding anything else and I might have a serious problem.

Right. ‘Cause right now, what I have already isn’t a serious problem.

Distractions. That’s what I need. Distractions and distance.

I push off the couch and grab my phone before heading for the stairs. The call connects as I’m pulling a pair of jeans out of my dresser.

“Hey, man,” Ben greets me over the sound of a kid crying in the background. It’s too young to be Nolan.

I pinch the phone between my shoulder and ear. “Hey. Is Chase okay?”

“Yeah, he’s just hungry and getting impatient waiting for Mia.” Ben chuckles. “Can’t say I blame him.”

I realize Ben’s just insinuated he also gets impatient waiting for Mia’s tits. Any other day and I might throw that back at him, but I’m too fucked up thinking about my own problems to come back with something clever. I choose to ignore his remark and fasten the button of my jeans.