Jason Woodbridge didn't know the date, the time, or when he'd last eaten. That was fine by him. He was high and balls deep inside Val Evans, which was the closest thing to heaven that he'd found in his twenty-four years.
Some people--many people, actually--considered Jason to be a degenerate, but he didn't let that bother him. He'd been an ethical hedonist, a proud follower of the doctrine and dictates of Aristippus of Cyrene, since his sophomore year of high school when he'd found a one-page overview of the philosophical viewpoint in his world history book under Ancient Greece.
Those old Greek bros had taught him a lot. Aristotle, for example, said that "the high-minded man walks with a steady and even gait." Jason adapted this into a credo: ignore the haters and keep on, keepin' on. Not everyone could vibrate on his frequency.
He thrust in and out of Val slowly, reveling in the sensation of her tight pussy sliding along his length. A fine mist of sweat beaded his torso as he kept himself suspended above her. He tilted his pelvis up, putting pressure on her lower stomach, drawing an imaginary circle within her vagina. He called this move The Swivel Press™. Someday, when he published his sexual hedonist masterwork, tentatively titled Certified Fuck Boy, it would be one of the key chapters in Part II: How to Fuck.
"Oh my god," Val moaned beneath. "Please, please, please--"
"Please, what, baby?" Jason growled.
"Please stop saying 'The Swivel Press' over and over. 'S fuckin' annoying," she gasped.
Jason rolled his eyes. "Baby, I told you. It's a MANTRA. I'm working on my tantric shit."
Val blew her damp, shaggy bangs off her face in exasperation. All the free, good quality MDMA in the world wasn't worth Jason's bullshit some days. "We've been fucking for literally forty-five minutes straight. Come, or get the fuck off me."
Jason kept pumping his hips. "Why don't you do a line with me? It'll get you over the--" he wiggled his eyebrows, "hump."
"Okay, that's enough," Val said, trying to shove him off. Grinning, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her to the bed. "Seriously, Jason, I'm not in the mood to play this game with you."
"Val, you're always in the mood to play this game with me." He kissed her, hard. "I'll come quick, I promise." He kissed her again, sliding his tongue into her mouth.
"Fine," she pouted prettily up at him.
Smiling, he shifted her legs up onto his shoulders so he could enjoy the way her breasts jiggled as he fucked her. He honestly wasn't sure if he could come again. Between the cocaine, the pot, and the five rounds of sex over the last twenty hours, he felt like he was floating on a higher plane of existence, that there was no greater sexual experience than what he felt right now, with Val, his orgasm be damned.
He wanted to make her come again. Jason didn't like the idea of her finishing any sexual bout with him less than starry-eyed. He'd fucked her for six years, off and on, and he still wasn't sure that she liked him. He figured that every time he punched her O-card, she was that much less likely to break up with him (again).
This new position was Val's favorite. A spin on good ole missionary known as the hook, it allowed for deeper penetration and better access to the clit. After the slow fucking they'd been doing, his sudden quickening of thrusts, paired with the fresh position and a thumb on her clit, made Val gasp and fuck back on his cock.
He knew her low throaty moans better than his favorite AFI record. Time to deploy the dirty talk. She liked it when he was a little mean; he liked it when she glared at him while he fucked her.
"Thought you were done with me fucking you? But you always change your mind once I get rough."
"Bullshit," she gasped in the middle of throwing her head back in ecstasy.
"Can't believe you're caving on me after only fucking for an hour. Maybe I need to get a side piece to be my cock-warmer."
He almost laughed as her eyes widened with outrage. He thrust at just the right angle, once, twice, three times, his thumb still working its magic. She came hard for him, halfway between a satisfied coo and an offended huff. He came, too, primarily from pure satisfaction.
"OFF. Get off!" Val said.
"Aw, baby, I was just teasing you! You like it when I--"
"You think I enjoy being reminded of all the other bitches you instantly fuck the second we take a break?" she demanded.
"You came, didn't you?" he asked, astonished.
"Oh, you son of a--"
The loud shriek of Jason's phone ringing interrupted their argument. Rolling over to the side of the bed, Jason reached for his cell.
"You told me you were taking four days off, that you wouldn't do any work. Were you fucking lying to me?"
Jason didn't know who he was more pissed at, Don for calling him despite explicit instructions to either handle everything or put it off until he was back, Val for being pissy over one phone call, or himself because he couldn't ignore it. He couldn't send the call to voicemail. He had to know what was happening. Did they need him? Was everything he'd built was falling apart in his absence?
He took the call, dodging the pillow Val threw at his head.
"What?" he barked.
"I'm sorry to bother you, boss--"
"What is it, Donnie? Be fucking quick about it."
"We had a guy making his usual delivery in your parents' neighborhood this morning, around 9 AM," Don said.
"A light or heavy drop off?" Jason interrupted. A light drop off was a batch delivery of pot, shrooms, or party poppers to a local dealer, while a heavy drop off included higher price, heavier drugs like oxy, meth, and heroin. Jason kept the two streams separate, in case one ever got burned by the cops.
"Light, but there wasn't an issue. I had him swing your street to check on Molly. I used the usual explanation--that a cop lives on that street. Report any unusual vehicles or visitors to any house on the block."
"And?" Behind him, fabric rustled as Val dressed and stalked out of the room.
"There's a 2012 red Ford Ranger parked in the driveway of your parent's place."
Jason fell silent, listening to the ringing in his ears. Michael fucking Randall had spent the night at his house, alone, with his barely legal baby sister. His thoughts raced. Was it remotely possible that Mikey was just tired and crashed there? Nope. Not a snowflake's chance in hell. The son of a bitch had always had goo-goo eyes for Molly Sue and he'd served her to that perverted asshole on a platter.
"Boss? You want me to go over and check on her?"
"No, I'll take care of it. Thanks for the call, Donnie. Everything else on track?"
"Yep."
"Cool. See you on Wednesday."
He ended the call before snatching his jeans off the floor. He couldn't believe this. Sure, he wasn't on the closest terms with Michael, but he still thought of him as a friend. He felt bad about using Michael to create his reputation as an absent-minded, broke fuck-up, really he did, but it was essential that no one suspected what he did for a living. It was in everyone's best interest. With nearly a million in laundered cash sitting offshore in the beautiful non-extradition island nation of the Maldives, he was well on his way to retiring before thirty-five.
Only Val and Don knew the real him. To everyone else, he was a ne'er-do-well, and that was just the way he liked it. But he also would not allow Michael fucking Randall to disrespect his goddamn sister. He strode out of the bedroom and grabbed his keys and wallet off the coffee table. This was a conversation to be had in person.
Val appeared in the kitchen's doorway, wrapped in a wrinkled peach robe, spitting fire.
"If you fucking leave, then don't come back. Why you came here and lied about not working like you always fucking do, I will never know--"
"Michael Randall fucked Molly last night. One of my guys saw his truck parked out front this morning," he said flatly.
Val paused, astonished, before she burst out laughing. "Well, he did always have a thing for her."
