Page 48 of The Killer Card

The first time I let a boy finger me I was fourteen. He took me to a movie and then we made out in his car after. His fingers had eventually found their way beneath my skirt, into my panties, and then inside me. It took little effort, I had very much wanted him to touch me, but it had still been surprising, and my body didn’t really know how to react. It’s not like he really knew what he was doing either. He never touched my clit even once in the entire thirty minutes he spent sliding his skinny finger in and out of me. He had finished. In his pants. Just from touching me and while that feels like a huge compliment now it had been highly confusing at the time. Especially when he stopped touching me and asked if I had also finished. I had, of course, not finished. But I hadn’t known enough yet to say that for certain, so I’d just nodded, thanked him, and then let him drop me off at home.

By my second encounter I made sure to do my research. I watched When Harry Met Sally, scrolled Tumblr for hours, even snuck some dirty books out of the library with my brother’s help. In retrospect, Nathan was not a good role model, especially considering he bought me my first vibrator for my fifteenth birthday.

All that to say, when my next boyfriend and I reached the point of finger fucking in the backseat of his car, I was more prepared. Which also meant I left the experience even more disappointed. Because by that point I knew what an orgasm was and was giving them to myself regularly. So, when I managed to successfully finish him with a hand job and he- much like the first guy- asked me if I had finished, I once again lied so as not to damage his ego too badly.

For a while, I just hoped it was a high school boy thing. Lack of experience on their part. When I moved on to college everything would change.

Except it was just more of the same. That’s not to say I haven’t had some phenomenal sex. Eventually real men managed to know what a clit was and how to use it. I would have my fun, maybe spank someone a little bit, typically get myself off subtly. But not a single one ever left me with the desire for more. At least not from them in particular.

That is, no one until Graham Rosales decided to fuck his way into my subconscious like a devil of carnal lust.

I hate him.

I hate that I am currently sandwiched between two of the hottest men I have ever seen in my life- the third trying to catch his breath on the bed beside us- covered in their sweat and other bodily fluids and yet all I can fucking think about is Graham fucking Rosales.

Does the man have a magic fucking cock or something? Was his tongue enchanted by a fucking fairy? Did he sell his soul for that kind of core strength?

I go to Pilates three times a week. The men I am wearing workout for a living! Why did I still have to finish the job myself?!

I’m the only one who can make you come, mi reina.

Now I do want to start sobbing because my fingers are fucking shaking- it took way too long to get myself there- and the headache is starting to set in, and I desperately want to get the smell of these men off of me.

I refuse to think about how great Graham’s cologne smelled. I refuse to think about how long it took me to get him off my skin and how I still haven’t fully forgotten the memory of it. It’s fucking burned into my nose or some shit because even when I’m sitting in my goddamn bedroom, utterly alone, all I can smell when I reach for my vibrator some nights is him.

The fútbol players and I ended up in a very high-class hotel. I guess they rented rooms so they wouldn’t have to drive home after partying so hard. Quite reasonably responsible. Also, easier to make a getaway on my part.

With a nudge of my elbow the player at my back- I leaned he was a Florida local about halfway across the threshold, but I can’t remember how or why I asked- lifts off and out of me. “I need a shower,” I tell the three of them, pushing off Maier beneath me.

He grunts out a clear disagreement, but I’m already halfway across the room, grabbing two little bottles out of the mini bar. They can afford it. “I’m stealing the robe,” I call back. The American gives me a thumbs up, already crawling up the Argentinian’s body. They are all very familiar with each other. Has Cristian ever—

I actually snort the thought away because Cristian Winchester-Santos ever even thinking of touching another man is laughable. Honestly, I can hardly imagine him touching women sometimes and I know exactly what he sounds like when he comes.

Closing myself off in the bathroom, I flick on the lights, turn up the shower to the hottest level and take a moment to just look at myself in the mirror. I’m relatively unscathed considering the marks my teeth and nails and hand prints left on the men in the other room. They tried to be gentle, didn’t argue when I asked them to get on their knees, never once complained when my nails dug crescents into their jaws. By all accounts it had been a fantastic fuck.

It just hadn’t been enough, and that’s the thought that finally makes me crack open the little bottle of vodka. I take a few swigs as I watch their spend dry on my skin.

I’m the only one who can make you come—

Yes, thank you disembodied voice, I know!

The question I keep asking myself is why. Why him? Why is what we did so much different than what I just did with those three other men?! Three! And they all tried their fucking hardest to make it happen too. I certainly didn’t let on that they were all complete failures but fuck, what was the deal?

Sucking at my teeth, I finish the mini bottle, grab the second one, and get in the shower, scrubbing my skin raw until I’m sure every last bit of me is clean of my birthday orgy.

Somehow I have to resolve that this is just the life I’m bound to live. There’s no denying that Graham was right but fuck him that doesn’t mean I have to give in to his temptation. Graham can go fuck himself, eat a dick, get fucked if he prefers but he will never be touching me ever again.

I will not ever fuck Graham Rosales ever again.

Chapter Fifteen

Graham

"Listen to your mother, Rory!” I exclaim, pointing at my television as if the teenager on the screen can hear or cares about my opinions where her love life is concerned.

It has to be two in the morning when I hear the knock at my door. I’ve only just finished showering after my shift and am maybe two puffs into the joint I lit when I sat down to watch my latest rerun of Gilmore Girls. I got super into it back when I was in rehab and do a rewatch every few months or so. I am firmly Team Jesse for life, but I also like my men slightly problematic.

The knock is firm, a refusal to be ignored behind every pound of a solid fist. Coughing in surprise, I set the joint in the ashtray on my coffee table and go to the door. I’ve only just caught my breath when I open the door.