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Chapter Three

Austen

I stare at Cam’s number, debating if I should call him back.

He definitely sounded pissed. But why on earth would he be pissed off at me? I invited him tonight. He’s the one who bailed. Was it because I ate both drumsticks? No, that’s dumb. Cam always shares his food with me.

“There he is!” Paul shouts as he approaches me.

“Why the fuck do you look like a lost damn dog?” He huffs as I shrug.

“Nothing,” I say, closing my cell phone.

“Savannah giving you shit?” he asks, taking a drink from his glass.

“No, I, uh… was talking to Cam. Told him he should come and—”

“Kinda surprised he didn’t, honestly. He’s up your ass twenty-four seven,” Paul grunts.

A strange sense of worry falls over me. “I guess it’s not really his thing.”

It’s not my thing, either, but Cam doesn’t need an excuse. Preferring dick over tits and pussy is basically a Get Out of Strip Clubs free card.

Jealousy swells within me. Not only did he not come with me, like we’d originally planned, but he was not at home working on homework, like he said he was going to do. Sure, he said he was at the club just now, but I know an echo in the bathroom when I hear one, and I know the tone of a man who just got laid.

Homework my ass. He probably never intended to do that at all.

I don’t know why I give a shit about what Cam does—or who, more accurately. I’m comfortable enough to admit he’s attractive, fun, and I know there are hundreds of guys out there who would jump at the chance to be with him. I want him to be happy, too.

But hookups in the bathroom of Paris aren’t what he deserves—since that’s probably where he is. It’s his go-to place. He’s better than that. I’ve told him as much, but the thing about Cameron Scott is he does what he wants. Wasn’t I just saying I liked that about him?

“He’s my best friend, we’re just… close.”

Paul scoffs, shaking his head.

“Yeah, whatever. You’re up, champ,” Paul says as he slams two crisp hundred dollar bills against my chest.

“Huh?” I ask, wrinkling the bills as I stare back at Paul who’s grinning ear to ear.

“Got you set up with Cinnamon over there.” He nods in the direction of a roped-off area with a woman in front of the tent—a fiery redhead with a plethora of tattoos along her hips and thighs and pierced nipples waves to me with a flirtatious wink, and my heart sinks.

“I’m good. Really—” I say, feeling flustered.

Paul wraps his arm around me, pulling me close.

“It’s on me, man,” he says with a grin. “Consider it an early wedding present.”

Shit, I’m not sure how to get out of this. If Cam was here, he’d find an excuse, or better, I’d find one. But without him, I’m left to be polite and accept Paul’s “gift.”

Maybe I should go in there and tell her the truth—that I’m not the kind of guy who does stuff like this, because I’m getting married in three months.

Who am I kidding? They probably hear that line all the time. And I bet most of the guys say it to give themselves a clean conscience like they tried or something.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell your ball and chain. Take it to my fucking grave.”

I groan as Paul drags me toward the tent.

“Thanks,” I say, my stomach in knots.

Savannah would kill me if she found out I was at this strip club tonight—period.

Despite the fact she’s drop dead gorgeous—I mean, she’s done pageants since we were in middle school—and I’ve told her time and time again, I have no desire to even look at anyone else, she refuses to believe me.

Savannah and I have been together since our senior year of high school. We were together for a few months before I finally pulled the trigger and slept with her. I knew it was something I needed to do, if only to fit in, but also because I didn’t want to be the lame case and laughing stock of the locker room.

How many football players do you know are a virgin by the time they graduate high school?

Scratch that, how many college football players do you know who are virgins?

Exactly.

Cam was the only person who didn’t think I was crazy for wanting to wait until I found the right person—even if he had been doing the opposite for years. But in the end, peer pressure made me cave, I guess.

Savannah and I fooled around a few times over the course of senior year, mostly at parties and while we were drunk. I thought maybe if I was drunk, I’d enjoy it more, and so would she. Loosen up the inhibitions and all.

But really, I just felt like shit afterwards.

We spent the summer together in Cape Cod after senior year, right before college started, and things got more serious. Then half-way through the first month of classes, Savannah told me she was pregnant, and suddenly nothing else mattered.

So I did the respectable thing and proposed. Everyone was thrilled, even though we hadn’t told them why. But I guess it didn’t matter, because we were both young and had been together long enough post-high school that people weren’t going to say anything rude or ask. At least to our faces. That’s how this town works, after all. Everything is about what you see on the outside.

One month after our engagement, Savannah told me she miscarried, and ever since then, we agreed that waiting until our wedding to be intimate again was a good idea.

And honestly, a relief. I never felt like I was good at getting her off unless I had something to take the edge off, so I wouldn’t second-guess everything I did. Asking her to tell me what she wanted or to direct me never worked. She’d only get mad at me and tell me “I should know,” like I’m a mind-reader or something.

Cinnamon greets us at the velvet curtains, and Paul grins wickedly.

“Treat him good, baby, he’s a first-timer.”

Cinnamon smiles as I pass her the bills, Paul waxing on drunkenly about how “they grow up so fast,” like I’m some nerd virgin or something.

I roll my eyes, casting Cinnamon a smile as I follow her into the tent.

I let her lead me to the large cushioned couch and take my seat, trying my hardest to focus, but my mind is a mess. The alcohol isn’t helping either.

Cinnamon parks herself between my legs, bending over to shake her ass in my face. I watch her movements, trying to dispel the thoughts permeating in my brain.

Who was that guy Cam was with? Is that why he bailed on me? To get laid? Is he seeing someone? No, probably not. He’d definitely tell me if he was seeing someone. I mean, we tell each other everything.

Unless… unless it’s purely just a friends with benefits thing or a hookup. Something akin to anger flushes through me at the thought.

What about the code? Bros before hos, and all that shit? He knows how I feel about this stuff. I’m not some tightly-wrapped virgin like Paul acts like I am, but that doesn’t mean I like being thrown into a circle of sex and alcohol where I know I have to put on a show. That should matter, right? At least, where my best friend is concerned.

“You seem tense, sugar,” Cinnamon says as she runs her hands along my shoulders and down my chest. She pushes me back into the cushions as she straddles me, and I don’t know what to do with my hands.

Am I allowed to touch her?

She must read my stiffness as a sign to keep going, an invitation to be loosened up. Despite the several drinks I had, I don’t feel loose at all.

I still feel like I’m pretending, keeping up the disguise of being the Austen Brewer everyone knows.

The real me wishes I was anywhere but here.

The real me wishes I was wherever Cam is. Maybe then he wouldn’t be getting fucked up the ass by a stranger in a public bathroom, and left in a pissy mood.

My cock twitches as Cinnamon rubs herself over me.

“Oooh, you like that, baby?” she coos in my ear, and I grind my jaw to keep my mouth shut.

My brain latches on to the thought of Cam, wherever he is. I’ve always tried to be supportive when it comes to my best friend, but as open as I am about stuff with him, I know there’s things he holds back from me, and that’s fine.

At least I thought it was fine, so why is my stupid brain pouring over Cam and his playboy bullshit now, of all times?

“Uh huh,” I say, blinking as I try to scrub the image of Cam getting railed out of my mind. There’s just some things you don’t want to think about, especially when you’re getting a fucking lap dance from a stripper.

Whether or not your gay best friend is the top or the bottom, definitely falls into that category.

I swallow hard as a bloom of sweat beads on my brow, my jaw tense.

“Can I… can I touch you?” I ask shakily. Maybe it will help my stupid wandering mind focus on Paul’s “gift” to me. I should at least make the effort, right? When in Rome and all that?

“You can touch me wherever you want, baby.”

I take a breath before settling my hands on her thighs. Her skin is warm, but not sweaty. My thumbs trace over her tattoos as I focus on grounding myself.

My mind wanders again, and I close my eyes, forcing the image of some asshole with his hands all over my friend out of my head.

I tighten my hold on Cinnamon, who takes the sudden squeeze to be some sort of affirmation, and in a way I guess it is.

She arches her back, leaning her head along my shoulder before grinding herself over top of me. My cock twitches as she rubs her ass over my prevalent erection. My eyes remain closed, but I can’t help the groan that escapes me. I can’t deny that it feels good, and it’s been too long since I’ve had anyone touch my cock, even in this sort of capacity.

Without thinking, I thrust my hips up, seeking that plush feeling, my clothed cock poking at the seam of her ass.

“You know,” she coos as she thrusts herself against me, “usually I charge extra to finish, but since it’s your first time, how about I give you the sweet Cinnamon discount? For the full experience…”

Full experience…

Before I can answer her or even ask what that entails, Cinnamon’s grabbing my hands and guiding them along her body. She takes one hand and places it over her pierced nipple, and the other she slips between her panties. My fingers slide over her skin, smooth with trimmed hair that feels almost like the Ninja Turtles Chia pet I had when I was a kid. Prickly but smooth.

I remove my hand from beneath her panties and run it along her ass instead. It feels safer. Panic floods me as she moves her ass over my cock. Is this…

Is this considered cheating? I’m not sure, but it doesn’t feel good, either. My cock protests, telling us we’re being stupid.

Let the pretty stripper make you come, Austen. No one’s made you come in over a year, man, you deserve this!

Cinnamon flips herself around in my lap, straddling me as she reaches her hand down, squeezing my cock through my jeans.

I groan, but my body tenses up at her touch. I don’t dislike it, but it’s too soft. Too nice.

Savannah’s the same way. At least when I touch myself, I can just… do what feels good. I don’t like light squeezing or lazy stroking. I like to be grabbed and pumped. Fast and hard.

But that’s the kind of stuff I keep to myself . I don’t want to insult anyone, especially my future-wife, and make her think I don’t enjoy what she is willing to give me. And the same applies to Cinnamon.

She’s doing her job, after all, so I’ll play the part.

I’ll play the part and we can get this over with, and maybe I’ll walk away feeling a little better, right?

Cinnamon giggles as she continues to softly squeeze and pump my cock through my pants, and my mind wanders again. I can’t keep focused, because all I can think about is Cam.

I hate it when people are mad at me, period, but Cam…

I shift Cinnamon off my lap, adjusting my dick as I try to be as polite as possible.

“I’m good, thank you. I think I need to go.”

Cinnamon’s eyes glisten and she pouts. “Are you okay, sugar?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not, but it’s not you.” It’s me. How fucking cliche am I? I offer her a smile of reassurance. “You were great. Five stars, promise.”

Cinnamon falls back into the sofa, studying me with a wistful gaze.

“See you around?” she asks, and I can hear the hope in her voice.

Of course she wants me to come back. I’m sure she’s got a handful of regulars, judging by the way she was able to get me so close…

I nod with that practiced smile, the one that everyone loves so much. It’s not genuine, but it has served me well in a lot of tight places. Like this.

“Of course,” I say, knowing full well I’ll never come back. If Paul or Andre suggest we come here again, I’ll find an excuse. There’s no way I can show my face here again.

I was so close to coming too.

On cheating on my fiancée.

How could I let myself get so fucking close?

I adjust my softening cock, take a bow, and leave the tent. Paul and the guys are waiting for me outside.

“Have a good time in there, Brewer?” Andre asks as he throws his arm around me.

I give them my best forced smile.

Pretend everything is fine.

“Yeah, I needed that for sure. Thanks, man,” I say.

Paul chuckles. “Anytime.”

I push off of Andre, letting out a sigh.

“But I’m starting to feel that last beer, and I’ve got an early Bio class tomorrow, so…”

Mack waves me off.

“Yeah, yeah, we know. Get the fuck out of here.”

I don’t have to be told twice. My fingers are queuing up a ride as we speak.

When I get home, back to my apartment on campus, I collapse on my bed, groaning into my pillow.

“Fuck me,” I moan in defeat. My cock twitches, knowing this routine too well.

I roll over, staring at the ceiling as I debate what I should do.

It’s late. Cam’s probably asleep, and whatever he’s pissed about, hopefully he’ll be over it in the morning.

I definitely should not call him.

But I also feel like complete and utter shit. I let Paul buy me a lap dance, and then I let some stripper grind all over me and I almost came in my damn pants.

I feel guilty about it. About letting some other woman do that to me, but I also feel like I need to come. I was so close…

Decisions, decisions.

I land on the latter. Porn it is.

My fingers slip as I try to bring up the browser in my phone, and the phone rings.

Shit!

I fumble to end the call so I don’t wake Cam, still hazy from my night of drinking, and queue up some porn.

Letting out a relieved sigh, I settle on a video I haven’t watched in a while. It’s one of a guy stroking his cock and unleashing his load all over his girlfriend’s ass. I don’t care for faces, so you can’t see anything except his thick hand around his dick, and her jiggly pale ass.

I waste no time slipping out of my drawers and wrapping my hand around my cock.

The relief that floods me is instant.

“Fuck, that’s so much better,” I breathe.

One of the best things about my apartment is having no roommates.

My apartment wasn’t cheap, but my parents insisted I get a place by myself to avoid “distractions.”

By distractions, they fully meant parties and the usual debauchery that comes with being away from your family for the first time ever.

Like I couldn’t just leave my apartment and find the sin wherever I wanted to. Like a strip club on a Friday night with my boys, for example.

I don’t have to worry about being quiet, about anyone judging me. Here, I can be as loud as I want. I can say whatever I want.

The sound of heavy breathing fills the air, probably from the video. I don’t usually focus on the sounds, but something about the breathing is inherently masculine, and it makes me feel better. Like it’s guiding me.

“So fucking close,” I hiss as I watch the woman in the video jiggle her ass, clapping her cheeks together as the man takes his aim. I pump myself, hard and fast, slathering my precum over my engorged shaft. The sounds of wet slapping echoes in the room as I turn over on my stomach, fucking my fist with a deep groan.

The sight, the sound, the alcohol, the overall frayed nerves, and I am coming within seconds.

I let out a strangled moan, relief flooding me. I collapse onto my bed within seconds, my cock slipping into a puddle of cum as exhaustion hits.

I barely hear the click as I let the darkness pull me under.