“Fuck yeah, baby."

“Ryan!” She screams, gliding up and down.

Her fake tits are so firm that they barely move as she rides me. I flick one bud with the tip of my finger as I watch my dick disappear.

I made sure that she knew it was just going to be a quick fuck before her hot mouth went down on me for the first time, weeks ago.

Blaire knows the score.

She's crazy in bed and will do just about anything to change my mind—to make her more than just a booty-call.

But that’s never going to happen.

A relationship means letting someone in and I'm not doing that any time soon.

Or ever.

"Ryan!" She screams my name, bucking her hips.

"Christ Blaire, slow the fuck down—you’re breaking my damn dick."

She's trying so hard to impress me, but what she doesn't realize is that the more she tries— the faster I'm going to push her away.

Christ, I'm never going to come the way she's doing this.

I grab her hips and push her off. My hand snatches a fistful of her perfectly dyed platinum hair, "Get on your knees and spread that ass out behind you.”

Of course she does.

With my fingers still threaded in her strands, I guide my tip in and squeeze my eyes shut; pretending that she's someone else—anyone else. I pump faster, almost climaxing, now that I'm in charge. My fingers reach around finding her spot and she moans louder, moving her hips in time with mine.

She comes first.

I might be a real bastard, but I always make sure that my partner has a good time.

Fuck that—the time of her life when she's in my bed; I just don't want to know her out of it. I don't want to hear about Blaire’s non-for-profit charity, her family drama or her daddy issues. I just want to take her to heaven and drop her off at the curb.

My body tenses and I shudder with my release. I pull out, sliding the condom off before tossing it in the trash. Pushing off the bed, I walk into the bathroom. She calls out behind me, “Can we grab dinner and maybe see a movie after?"

Ignoring her, I slam the door and twist the lock.

I'd feel like a real asshole if my heart wasn't a piece of granite.

Opening the glass door, I squirt a half bottle of body wash on. She wears so much goddamn perfume and I don't want any part of her clinging to my body, not even the trace of her scent on my skin. I make a mental note to stop fucking her and find someone else.

She tried to cuddle with me yesterday. I told her that I had to take a piss and got out of bed. I never went back. You’d think that she’d take the hint.

She didn’t.

She wants to go to the movies?

Christ, what is she thinking? That a few weeks of crazy sex would change me?

Why do they always think that?

This shit's getting old.

No scratch that—screwing Blaire is getting old, everything else is fucking fantastic.

***

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I open the door, and stop short. She’s still here, in my bed where I left her ten-minutes ago.

“Blaire?”

The fat tears that rolled down her face have destroyed her perfect makeup.

Fuck.

I sit on the edge of the bed and sigh. “I’m sorry Blaire. I thought I was honest with you—I was in a long-term relationship for a year and I need some space to breathe. You are a beautiful girl, but I’m all-fucked up right now with nothing to give to anyone but this…” I gesture to the rumpled sheets that still smell of our sex.

“I know. But I thought that maybe you had some feelings for me?”

“I’m sorry Blaire. I’m dead inside, incapable of having them even if I wanted to. I don’t expect you to understand.”

She nods her head and gets out of bed to gather her clothes. I avert my eyes, since it’s clear that whatever she thought we had is over.

“Well, you still took a piece of my heart anyway,” she answers gathering up her purse and walking out. I follow her to the door and lock it behind her, sagging in relief when I hear the ping of the elevator in the hall.

She’s gone and I just added another broken heart to my collection. But what they don’t know, is mine was the first one in the jar.

 

***

 

"It's been months. We graduate next week—Ry, are you at least going to invite your mother...maybe even talk with her?"

"Absolutely not," I bite out before tipping back my scotch on the rocks. I’m doing much better, but I’m not completely back to who I was before, and I’m realizing that I might not ever be. The anti-depressants kicked in and once I got rid of Blaire; I was able to focus on finishing the semester and get my body back in the gym. I don’t feel like a weak, trembling newborn colt. I feel like a stallion; wild and ready to kick out the stall door and run free.

He sighs and sits back surveying the room, no doubt on the lookout for tonight’s main dish. It’s another Friday night in Boston and we are up to no good, as usual.

"Some things need to be said—it wasn't her fault. The two of you need to hash things out. She had nothing to do with what happened to Abby."

"She's complicit nonetheless. She chose him over me, Blake. I don't know how he lives with himself. He had the cheap slut bent over. He was ramming her from behind and her claw-like nails were inches away from the family photos that my mother kept next to the windowsill. He was screwing that bitch for months right under our noses— in the family home. And she just took him back?" I snap my fingers to make a point.

"You know how it goes in our circle, Ryan. It's all about appearances...can't have our old blue-blood family lines get tarnished by a scandal."

"Yes, but I thought that my own mother would be different. It was more than disappointing to realize that she's just like the other women in the set—cold, calculating and ruthless when it comes down to it. My sister would have never been out on the road that night. She wouldn't be distraught behind the wheel if my prick of a father could keep his old dick stuffed in his pants."

"I know Ry, but you need to start letting go of this bitterness. I’m glad to see that you’re back in the gym at least a few days a week, but you still look like shit to me. When was the last time you had a decent haircut?"

I shrug, smoothing my coal black hair. Fuck he's right, it's down the back of my neck and I could probably put it in a ponytail. Despite what he says the ladies like how I look, judging by all the action that my dick’s been getting lately.

"If you aren't going to cut it at least shave that beard. You look like a goddamn pirate. What the fuck—you have a fucking gold hoop earring?"

"You’d be amazed at how many blow jobs it gets me."

"Christ," he mutters under his breath.

I finger the hoop at my ear. Yeah, I was on a bender the night I sucked face with some chick that had a tongue ring. It didn’t take much coaxing on her part to convince me, and the next thing that I know—I’m at a seedy tattoo parlor in Somerville handing over a fifty while the chick rimmed my ear with her tongue, calling me her sexy pirate.

"I dumped Blaire....you know from our non-relationship fucking.”

"Was she any good?"

"She was hot, but a little too wild. She almost broke my stick one time.” I sigh. “I watched the pieces of Blaire’s heart fracture right before my eyes. Her lower lip trembled and she begged me to give her another chance, but I told her I had been straight with her from the start. My heart wasn’t on the table. She shouldn’t have put hers in play.”

 

"Mind if I take her for a ride?"

"She's all yours Blake. I'm looking for a fresh piece of ass anyway— a girl who will know the score."

"Don't talk like that, you’ve become quite crass."

"And you’re a goddamn pansy ass. Remind me to take you out for tea on Sunday. You can show me how to drink it with my pinky, holding the stem of the cup."

"Prick."

"Well, I won't deny it."

"I'm bored. Let's find dessert."

"Game on. Let's go." I lead the way, ignoring every woman who stares at us. We're dressed in the finest tailored suits. The cufflinks on Blake's shirt probably costs more than what most people in this room make in a month’s time. Blake and I get a lot of attention wherever we go. We’re both over six feet, but where I have dark hair and eyes with more of an olive skin tone; Blake could pass for a Viking lord with his ice-blonde hair and blue eyes. He seems to have a tan year-round since he travels south for a few weeks each winter. I’ve been spending holidays with him and his father, Charles for the past few years. The Fosters have become my family. Hell, maybe I’ll even have my name changed. That would really piss my parents off. I haven’t forgiven them and I likely never will.

“Hello sexy.”

I stare down to where a cherry red-lacquered nail rests on my arm and then up to a round pair of breasts, spilling from a tight tube top. I imagine that nail touching the tip of my dick. Sex is the only time that I can feel anything pleasurable.  I signal the bartender for another round and then drink— and fuck my way through another Friday night.