The Pretend Boyfriend novel Chapter 7

It's amazing. He had just fucked somebody a mere hour ago, and he now has a raging hard-on under the table. The familiar rising of his cock sends the entire crotch area of his jeans into massive strain. Enough strain to pop his zipper.

But he can't help it. Whoever this woman is, she's just fucking adorable.

She's staring at him.

Great.

They all do.

Her eyes flash blue fire as she strides up to him, still seated at the poker table. Everyone's eyes are riveted upon her.

"Brian Morton?" she says.

Behind her, a gaggle of women - including the brunettes who were eyeing him from the bar and the blonde he had just fucked - troop into the room, hanging around the doorway bemusedly to watch.

"Yes?"

"Did you go to St. Theresa Academy? Around thirteen years ago?"

"Give or take a few, yeah."

She's very close to him. He can smell her perfume - a light summer scent that brings daisies and bright meadows to mind. He smiles up at her. That cocksure, predatory smile that renders women, so he has been told, weak at the knees.

Oh, she wants him. He can tell.

She says, "Good. Because there's something I want to give you."

With that, she draws back her fist and punches him right in the face.

"What did you do that for?" Brian splutters, nursing his jaw. He has gotten to his feet, erection notwithstanding.

She could be some woman he had fucked and left high and dry. But he doesn't remember fucking her. And hell, he would have remembered someone like that.

"Because you made my middle school a living hell."

"Middle school?" Brian eyes the woman warily. His entire middle school is a blur, especially since he was yanked out midterm to go to another school. "I don't fucking remember middle school."

Caleb laughs. "And you weren't even smoking joints until you were fifteen."

But these tits on a skinny, gawky kid he used to know from eighth grade!

The girl he used to call 'Jaws' is magnificent before him. All filled out and lushly curved. Her eyes spit blue fire, and he can well imagine them sparkling fire of another sort under him.

He's aware that his own jaw has dropped to the floor. Around him, the poker guys are sniggering and even laughing outright. The women at the door wear expressions of delight at his comeuppance. Clearly, this is a scenario plenty of women would like to see him wallow in.

He knows he needs to say something. The appropriate (not to mention decent) thing to do is to apologize for middle school. Apologize for everything he can't remember doing to her.

Only he's fucking speechless right now, and the only image torpedoing in his head is that of a grinning great white shark.

But wait a minute.

He's Brian Morton. He doesn't have to apologize.

He has never apologized to any woman in his entire life, excepting his mother - when he's actually speaking to her, that is. He's not Mr. Nice Guy. That role has already been taken by Caleb. He's a predatory uber-stud who tells it like it is, be damned with the niceties. He never had to be nice to a woman to get her to spread her legs.

It's an image he has cultivated and it has served him nicely all his adult life.

It's time to say something snarky. Something like "So how was therapy?" After all, she did deck him a good one for something he did when he was an immature fourteen-year-old who was too angry with his alcoholic father who took out his booze-soaked rages on him by whupping his ass and his mother who stood by and watched the whole thing but did nothing.