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Letting Mitchell Sullivan into the mental fortress I’ve built to protect myself was mistake number one. Mistake number two was coming to this fucking party.
I do not, under any circumstances, recommend fucking your best friend.
Yes, even if he has golden blond hair, a body sculpted by the gods, and a laugh that calms every molecule of anxiety in your chest. Especially if he’s the sweetest cinnamon roll you’ll ever sink your teeth into; spare yourself the toothache and look elsewhere for someone to match your freak.
But perhaps I digress.
I mean, what do I know? It’s not like I follow my own damn advice or anything. From the moment Mitch was tasked with training me on my first day of work at The Tattered Cover, I could feel the tension between us simmering just under the surface like a volcano threatening to erupt at any moment. It was only a matter of time before a few drinks after work turned into his cock erupting all over my tits.
And it was fucking amazing.
It was so amazing that we decided to do it sober. Then again, drunk. Then again, sober. Then again and again and again…
To my glorious surprise, this sweet and sensitive himbo of a man is an animal behind closed doors. Absolutely fucking feral, bordering on unhinged. The stark difference between the Mitch that kneels on dirty sidewalks to tie my shoelaces and the Mitch that pushes me to my knees and fucks my throat like it’s a fourth hole he wants to dominate is breathtaking.
I’ve always known I’m a masochist, but it wasn’t until Mitch that I felt the true empowerment of submitting yourself to someone you trust. Don’t get me wrong, Mitch is a greedy bastard who takes what he wants from me, but only because he knows, without a shred of doubt, that using my body within our well-discussed yet minimal boundaries satisfies the deep-seated urges I can’t even begin to reasonably justify.
The way he lifts the weight of the world from my shoulders when he takes control is an addiction. In my 25 years of life, I have been burned too many times by men who took the control I gifted them and abused me for their own selfish gratification with no regard for my desires or limits. With Mitch, I can expect to have my body pounded into oblivion one minute, and the next, we’re soaking in a hot bath as he massages my sore muscles.
I never expected to be involved in a friends-with-benefits situationship, but it worked for us…until it didn’t.
Being fuck buddies means you sign up for a non-exclusive agreement to fuck each other's brains out with no strings attached. So, of course, I shouldn’t be shocked to find out that Mitch is fucking someone else…right?
Wrong! So-so-so wrong!
There is no playbook with instructions on how to process the fact that the best friend you’ve been fucking, also happens to be fucking his best friend, and all the emotions you denied having are suddenly front and center, demanding attention.
It figures that once I finally find a small slice of perverted heaven for myself, Ian fucking Summers has to blow it to smithereens when I was doing an excellent job blowing Mitch myself.
It was already hard enough to find time with Mitch, between work and over a decade of bromance to get in the way of our hookups, but it’s going to be virtually impossible for me to find my way into Mitch’s schedule now with Ian so far up his ass…literally and figuratively.
Honestly, it’s easy to be mad at Ian, but being mad at Mitch is new. In my defense, Mitch is fucking the same guy he’s been desperately trying to hook me up with for the past six months—despite our shared protests.
Mitch spent one second with my grumpy ass and instantly decided that my love life was his top priority and, for some reason, chose to make it his life’s mission to hook me up with his annoyingly charismatic best friend.
Thanks to Mitch and his constant meddling, the number of times Ian and I found ourselves locked in the stockroom, cataloging inventory alone, is not zero. Try as he might, oil and water don’t mix, much to his insistence that they do, and at some point, between all the tricks and schemes to get us together, he found his way into both of our beds.
Greedy bastard.
With an unhealthy amount of emotional avoidance, I’ve managed to snatch up just about every Mitch-free shift at the store this week, so I’d have a legitimate excuse to ghost him while I sort out my feelings.
Ugh, Feelings . The audacity of this man to make me feel anything outside of orgasmic bliss is unfounded. How dare he entice me with his cock, just to throw me a curveball of actually giving a shit.
Miraculously, I also managed to avoid Ian this week, even though a few of our shifts overlapped, though that was also probably by design. I’m not proud of my choice to evade the problem, but then again, I did take off halfway across the country to evade a problem, so it’s not entirely out of character.
Working my ass to the bone this week has been exhausting. Too many times, I caught myself looking over my shoulder as I was shelving books to see if Mitch was working at the service desk, only to remind myself that I was supposed to be avoiding him. Just as I was about to take a few days off to hide at home, probably feigning a sickness, Mitch dared to be amazing at his job and was finally offered the promotion he’s worked so hard for. One massive group chat later, he's throwing a last-minute party at his apartment to celebrate.
When I first arrived at his apartment, the week-longavoidance finally caught up with the heavy guilt in my chest. Mitch answered the door with a smile, pulled me into a bear hug, gave me a mind-blowingly good kiss, ushered me to the drink table, and then ran off to greet his guests as they trickled in. I didn’t blame him for ditching me at first, but after an hour, my patience has officially run its course, and now I can’t help but wonder if asking me here tonight was all part of another one of his grand master plans.