If all the things I hate the most were to compete for the top spot, Monday mornings would undoubtedly take silver. Not that the rest of the week charms me either—it's just that Mondays feel especially cursed.
If it weren't for the fact that I had somewhere to be, I'd still be in bed. Not sleeping, though. No, sleep is evasive when your head feels like someone's playing drums inside your skull.
Sitting at my dressing table, already dressed but not fully awake, a thought hits me. I took an Uber back home last night after leaving the club. That means…
Fuck. My car.
I'm already two minutes late. Might as well take my time now.
I reach for my hairbrush, and like a dam breaking, memories of last night flood in. The bass had pounded in my chest as I stepped into the club, the thick air vibrating with heat and flashing lights. Strobe lighting cast dizzy glows over the writhing bodies on the dance floor, a blur of sweat and ecstasy. Byron disappeared the moment we walked in, and the vague memory of some blonde kneeling for him in a dark corner makes me smirk. And Janelle's beauty is enough to stop any man in his tracks, though she preferred to sit back, drink in hand, and observe the chaos.
I danced with a few guys. Twelve, actually. Downed shot after shot and ended up having sex with a guy named Neo. At least, I think that was his name.
God… He fucked like a goddamn pornstar.
Even now, I can still feel the ache, his presence imprinted on my body. My core throbs with the memory of him—every thrust, every deep, primal movement. I clench my thighs together, and I'm hit with the intense sensation of him all over again—his dick, his scent, his hands, his face…
Wait… His face?
What did he look like?
I can't believe I forgot the face of the guy who had me screaming, shaking, coming so hard I thought I'd black out.
I try to remember his face, but it's all a blur now, fading like the end of a dream. What I can't forget is how his body felt pressed against mine—hard, warm, his skin smooth like velvet against me. His breath was hot on my neck, whispering in that low, rough voice that sent shivers through me. I don't even remember exactly what he said—just how his words made me feel.
A buzz disrupts my thoughts. I grab my phone from the dressing table, and a groan escapes my lips when I see the name lighting up the screen—my idiot best friend who forgot to pick up my car from the club.
"Rae, I'm so sorry, I—"
Where's my car? Why didn't I just pick it up myself? But all I managed to say was "Fuck you."
Byron had been the one who booked me an Uber since I was too drunk to stand properly. He promised to send someone to pick up my car.
He sighs. "I'm in your building's parking garage. I'll drop you at work, then send someone to pick up your car."
I blink. He's being nice? He's in my parking lot? To drop me off at work?
I laugh. "Did you bump your head somewhere?"
"You're late."
"You didn't crash my car, did you?" I ask, narrowing my eyes like he was in front of me.
"Rae!"
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," I reply, rolling my eyes. What a dick.
I stand up and grab my bag from the dressing table, pausing to strike a pose in front of the mirror before heading out.
He coulda sent his driver to drop me off but he decided to drop me himself, I'm surprised. I'm used to seeing him in a Bentley but I can't seem to find him among any of the Bentleys parked around.
After what feels like an eternity, my eyes finally land on him, lounging behind the wheel of a Mercedes. Rich people problems.
If I'm to guess why he's in the Mercedes today instead of his beloved Bentley, I'd bet good money it's because the Bentley's interior is probably drenched in a cocktail of spilled alcohol and, well, cum.
I walk toward the car and settle into the passenger's seat. The sleek, sophisticated interior is exactly what I'd expect—premium leather, polished details, and a subtle hint of Byron's cologne lingering in the air.
I turn to him. He has only a white T-shirt and an ash-colored sweatpants on yet he still looks annoyingly handsome.
Byron is an NBA champion—a very famous one—but he never acts it, at least not around me. He values his private life more than any celebrity I know. Somehow, he manages to dwell in his private life and also keep the paparazzi at bay.
His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on my outfit before a slow smile spreads across his face. "At least you're not dressed like you just stepped off a pole."
I cock my eyebrow at him. "Did you just compare me to a stripper?"
"After last night? Yes."
I drew in a sharp breath to stop myself from throwing a punch on that lips of his. And surprisingly it worked. "I'll let that slip. But just know you're paying for my nails."
Byron chuckles, the sound sending a warm vibration through the car. "Didn't you just get your nails done yesterday?"
"They broke last night," I reply, grinning as I showed him my nails. How the fuck am I so shameless?
He smirks. "Bitch."
I roll my eyes. "You gonna pay for my nails or what?"
He laughs as he pulls out of the parking lot. "You really need to get a boyfriend."
"So… is that a yes?"
He murmurs a soft "hm," not taking his eyes off the road.
A wide smile crept onto my face. "That's why I love you." I lean over and kiss his cheek.
"You don't love me," he replies, side-eyeing me. "You love my money."
He isn't entirely wrong, but he isn't entirely right either. Byron and I have been best friends since foster care, and he's the only person I've ever felt this close to. I love him, no doubt, but if I say I don't love his money—our money—I'd be lying.
When he started practicing to join the NBA, I was his biggest cheerleader—even when he missed the basket for the eleventh time. I kept encouraging him not to give up. Now, here he is, topping charts at every game—all thanks to me, of course.
I rummage through my bag and pull out my berry-colored lipstick, applying a quick coat to my lips. Byron Kept his sleepy eyes on the road. It's 9:13 A.M.—for fuck's sake.
I lean in close to him, my gaze falling on the spot where I'd kissed his cheek. He's trying to ignore my stare, but he isn't doing a great job.
"I already agreed to pay for your nails," he mutters, still focusing on the road.
I roll my eyes. "Like you had a choice." Grinning, I use my lipstick to trace over the kiss mark I'd left, making it more noticeable. I don't really have a reason for doing it—I'm just bored.
"Stop it," he says, giving me an irritated look.
I don't know if it's a flaw or a gift, but whenever someone says stop, my mind hears continue. Just as I'm about to mark him again, he knocks the lipstick out of my hand with his elbow, sending it tumbling onto the seat between his thighs. An idea strikes me, and I embrace it with a smile.
I reach between his legs, my hand brushing against his crotch. His gaze flickers to me, and I could tell he was already turned on—one of my many talents.
"Rae, what the fuck are you doing?" His voice was low and husky.
I lean in closer, my lips just an inch away from his ear. "Just picking up my lipstick," I whisper, barely audible.
My thumb caresses him through his sweatpants, feeling his hardness. I slid my hand into his pants, freeing his already stiffened cock. He glances down at it in betrayal, his body betraying him even more.
He groans. "Rae… you're gonna get us killed."
We're on the highway, and one small mistake could send us straight to heaven—or more likely hell. But I don't really care about dying, at least not yet. "Keep ya eyes on the road, Byron," I whisper, letting my breath tickle his ear.
I could feel his body respond, a shiver running down his spine. My fingers trace his length, slow and teasing. His grip on the steering wheel tightens.
I wrap my hand around him, stroking gently. "I turn you on better than any other bitch," I say, smirking. I glance at his face—sweat trickles down his forehead, his veins pulses, and his expression twisted between pleasure and pain.
He groans again, his body tense as he tries to keep his attention on the road.
"Don't I?" I press, tracing lazy circles around his tip with my thumb.
"Y…Yes." His Adam apple bobs and his breath hitches.
I know.
I bite my bottom lip, pleased. "Good," I whisper, more to myself than to him.
His body tenses further, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. It took every ounce of his restraint not to pull over, drag me to the back seat, and fuck me senseless. I could see it in his eyes.
His breathing grew heavier, more ragged. "Rae… you're... fuck," he groans, suddenly swerving to dodge a car that cuts in front of us.
"Don't fight it," I whisper, my lips brushing against his ear again. "Let go." His hips jerk involuntarily. His cock twitches in my hand, throbbing.
With one last stroke his entire body went rigid. With a guttural moan, Byron came hard, his cock pulsing as warm jets of cum spills into my hand. His chest heaves, breaths coming in ragged gasps. I keep stroking him through it, feeling the sticky warmth coat my fingers.
His hands momentarily lose grip on the wheel, but he quickly corrects it, his forehead damp with sweat. The sound of his heavy breathing fills the car, mingling with the scent of sex and his cologne.
I glance down at my hand, now slick with his cum, and let out a soft chuckle. "I didn't get us killed. Did I?" I ask, wiping my hand on a tissue from the glove compartment.
Byron groans, his head resting back against the seat as he tries to catch his breath. "You're insane," he mutters, though a faint smile tug at his lips.
Leaning over, I plant another kiss on his cheek, leaving behind another lipstick mark. "And you love it."
He shakes his head, still breathless, but with a soft laugh escaping his lips. "You're going to pay for that later."
And by that he mean he'll fuck me later.
I shrug, wiping the last of the evidence from my hand. "I'm scared," I tease, sarcasm dripping from my voice.