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𝖎𝖓 𝖉𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖆… 𝖆 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙?

His friends - or whatever they’re called, given they’re really just people chasing him for the money he’s throwing around - keep asking why he always makes them go to the club or throw parties where he insists everyone dances.

“It’s not really dancing, it’s just grinding,” he answers matter-of-factly, though it’s nowhere near a fact. He just loves dancing, and claiming it’s an excuse for the quiet question Can I fuck you? is the easiest way to deal with their questions. Still, it’s half a truth when he fucks them in the bathroom, or manages to convince them to stay the night at his place. He doesn’t tend to worry about who, as long as he doesn’t sleep alone, safe from nightmares.

When he wakes up in the late afternoon, spent after fucking the bodies now surrounding him, he doesn’t feel a thing. Maybe if he were a fucking prude like his brother, some nights would’ve been an out-of-this-world experience, but he’s not. He’s made his choices. So he runs his hand down the back of the girl lying next to him. The sheets are sweat-soaked, her back sticky, but he doesn’t care as he whispers, “Turn around.”

He doesn’t have to ask her twice. Surprisingly, she gets into position far too easily and quickly. It’s impressive how well she knows what to do, how she can predict the next command. Maybe she’s what he needs to fill the void. Maybe this time it’ll be different.

Or so he keeps hoping, right up until she proves how fucking wrong he was.