I can’t seem to ejaculate lately.
It isn’t from lack of effort on my part. Hell, no. I'm no quitter, but despite pumping into my very hot supermodel girlfriend for the last hour, trying every position you can imagine, and even inventing a few of my own, I am nowhere near coming.
Sweat drips from my abs and chest onto hers, and I murmur an apology and thrust harder, slamming into her body again and again as I try to get there. She's already come four times and during her last two orgasms she asked me if I was close. Yes, I lied.
Giving a final huff, she pushes me off her. “What the hell, Collins?” She moves from the bed, tossing a pillow at my face, as she grabs her silk robe.
I sit back on my heels; naked as the day I was born, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. Tatianna is tall and thin with long silky hair, and she's front and center in the mental spank banks of men worldwide. This has nothing to do with her, or shit, maybe it does, I don’t know.
“Listen, babe, I'm just tired, okay?” I'd run six miles that morning and then done a brutal kickboxing workout with my youngest brother, Pace. And hell, maybe some of the conversation we'd had while throwing jabs and uppercuts is still spinning in my head. When he'd inquired about my relationship with Tatianna, I'd admitted to him that I was pretty sure she only regarded me as her personal bank account, and she was merely a warm body to lose myself in. Only that isn't working so well for me lately either.
I watch from the bed as Tatianna dresses herself, choosing designer garments from the massive walk-in closet I had built for her. She tosses stray clothes to the floor before finally settling on a black shift dress and matching heels. “I'm going out,” she says in my direction.
I know she's pissed at me, but shouldn’t we talk about this? Isn't that what couples do?
I merely nod.
I'm sure she's going out shopping, her typical Saturday afternoon activity.
After she's gone, I shower and dress, then sit alone in the library enjoying a one-hundred year old scotch. I consider calling my brothers, but they're probably each busy with their families. Leaning back in the leather armchair, I close my eyes.
I exercise control over all things in my life—from my company, to my relationships, to the way I handle my business—only my cock hasn’t gotten the memo. The selfish prick.
I could make an appointment for a physical—but I'm sure my doctor would tell me the problem is with my head, not my dick. I can come just fine with my own hand—and I don't want to hear why he thinks that is. Not something I care to examine, thanks, Doc.
As the oldest brother in a family without a mother, and a father who worked too much, a hell of a lot fell on my shoulders. I ran a tight ship and made sure my brothers kept in line. And now, as the CEO of a company, it's no different. I rarely have time for frivolous things, like fun. Maybe now I’m paying the price. I’ve forgotten how to fucking ejaculate. Christ.
I'm sitting alone, enjoying a drink while the sun sinks low in the sky, when the doorbell chimes. No one rings the bell. My brothers would let themselves in, and the housekeepers would enter through the garage. I push up from the chair and head toward the foyer, wondering who the hell is at my front door.
I open the door to find a young woman standing on my front porch. There’s something alluring and vaguely familiar about her wide set mossy-colored eyes fringed in dark lashes. My dick perks up in interest. Really, now? To this brown haired girl who looks equal parts terrified and hopeful?
We each stand there, eyes roaming over the other. Did her car break down? It seems unlikely that she hiked the mile up my private driveway. I'm about to offer her my cell phone when she speaks for the first time.
“Collins?” She squints at me, like she isn't just looking at me, but looking into me, as strange as that sounds. Her voice has a familiar quality to it. Soft, yet gravelly. My memory scrambles through a scotch-induced haze to place her.
“Gremlin? Is that you?” I find that I'm the one squinting now, trying to understand how the girl I used to know by that nickname has transformed into this beautiful creature before me.
“It's Mia now,” she corrects me with a pout.
“Mia, fuck!” I pull her into my arms, squeezing her against my chest. She's still the same height as when we were teens—barely clearing five feet, whereas I've sprouted up to a commanding six-foot-two.
Her posture relaxes once she's in my arms and she lets out a small chuckle. “I didn’t think you recognized me at first.”
“I've had a lot on my mind today. Besides you look just a little different than the last time I saw you.” I release her and meet her eyes, and I can tell we're both remembering the last time we were together. We were fifteen years old and below deck on my dad’s boat while it swayed gently at the dock. She'd told me that she was moving. And then begged me to take her virginity. Which I did. My last memory of her is with blood smears on her thighs and tears blurring her emerald green eyes. I still feel like a shit for that night. Shame burns hotly through me, forcing me back into the present.
I clear my throat, and Mia blinks away the memories no doubt clouding her vision. If she's here on my doorstep in LA, maybe that means she's forgiven me for that night. We grew up together and were pretty much inseparable from the time we were five years old. Until she moved away. I haven't seen or spoken to her in fifteen years. As I drink in her appearance, I realize some things are still the same—her green eyes that sparkle when they catch the light and her messy brown hair that curls every which way, but some other things are definitely new. Those tits for instance. I'd remember those. Her waist is tapered and trim, but her hips flare out, and without needing her to turn around, I can tell her ass is round and lush. The girl has curves that are completely at odds with the scrawny, scab-kneed tomboy I recall playing with my entire childhood.