Princely Passions 2(35)

God, I've never fucking come so hard as I did with Mr. Guitar God. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so erotic as I did licking my cum off his massive cock. I’m still shivering just thinking about it. I slink into my clothes and head out of the room while Stone is still sleeping. Maybe he really won’t remember this … and I just can’t be the one to explain that to him. I have to get back to my apartment and get a grip on myself because the way he fucked me, the intensity of how I felt toward him is fucking me up. Especially considering the truth about what I was there for. An interview. Fact-finding. I want to stay to make sure he's okay, though, not to finish out my story. I'll have to kill this story, or get it some other way.

My head is spinning and I keep slipping into my clothes as quietly as I can. My clothes are wrecked. I struggle to make do with what I have to work with and I get the hell out of that room, out of that hotel, and drive back to my apartment. Fucking Stone is the most addicting fuck I’ve ever experienced and I can’t wrap my head around it.

And here Stone is, addicted, and the medicine that cures him is wrecking his life. Wrecking my pussy in the most delicious way possible is one thing. But wrecking his life?

And, selfishly, I have to add, wrecking my story? Well neither of those is a fair trade off. Because no one can write about how he’s found some miracle drug and he’s having difficulties. I grimace, knowing my editor would actually find the story a risky, but still intriguing read; I know that I can’t share these details with anyone else. Like, I’m the reporter who slept with her source, but I’m not the reporter who shares private medical details that her subject gave her. Even as ambitious and driven as I am to get my job done, do it well, do it better than anyone else? Even though I’m generally pretty ruthless when it comes to work or anything in my personal life, too? Well, I’m not heartless. Not heartless enough to take someone who’s been through the hellish ordeal of addiction, trying to get past that, and confided in me the truth. There's something about the innocent way he asked me to come to his hotel room. Sure I assumed that he was messing me with the pill story. But in some very strange way, everything that happened tonight somehow endeared me toward trusting him and that crazy story. As if incredible sex somehow makes the impossible and unlikely seem, well, possible and likely.

My heart doesn’t stop racing the entire drive home. Erotic flashbacks taunt my every movement. How can my body feel so sensitive and so numb at once? When I get inside my apartment, I head to the kitchen for a glass of water. I feel a tinge of sadness. All the cum I drank today was so much more satisfying than a glass of water. But as hard as I came? I need to make sure that I don’t get dehydrated.

I get into the shower, despite being tired. If I’m being honest, I feel shitty about not just passing out in his arms after the fuck fest we had. I wanted to. But I didn’t want to let my ambitious reporter self take over and start observing the scene for if he told the truth or lied. I didn’t think I wanted him to have forgotten our night, either. I’m in the shower for a long time, buried in a lot of thoughts that don’t completely follow through, or come to a head. When I finally notice that the water has gone cold, I get out, dry off, and climb into my own bed. It feels lonelier than I’d like to admit.





129





Gisele





At the Irish Exit, I sit at the table with Ashley and Kathy, sipping a bourbon, my fav drink. Which, I’ll admit, is a little strange. In the middle of Stone’s explanation of his alcoholism and experimental drug use, it didn’t seem like the appropriate time to pop in with, “Bourbon is my favorite drink too!” even if it's true. I’ll be honest, the coincidence seems … well, a little coincidental. I didn’t want him to think I was some sort of weird groupie who just claims to love something ‘cause he does, know what I mean?

But seriously, bourbon is the best. I can’t imagine taking a pill that would make me not want to drink it. That’d just be tragic. Giving up drinking would be tragic.

I stare down at my bourbon, ignoring the conversation around me. Some awful band is up on the stage, wailing about lost love, and I ignore them too, even when they hit a particularly bad note. Okay, so maybe I hear those, despite my best intentions. But seriously, is it weird for me to be mooning over some guy who I only fucked once? And, who doesn’t even remember it happening? I need to get over it already but …

I don’t want to. And that’s really weird for me. I’m the queen of fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. But this time? I don’t want to leave.