“In what fucking universe is that acceptable?” I ask him, surprised that a God-awful noise like that is even human.

“In mine.”

“Well it’s disgusting.”

“The last I checked it was my name on the deed to this place, so if I need to burp, love, I’m gonna fucking burp.”

“Fine, but just so you know, if you ever fart when I’m around, I’ll hurt you with the nearest blunt object I can find.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

“Okay then, at your own peril. It’s just good manners, you know?”

“I suck at manners.”

“Ha. Yeah, you kinda do. It wouldn’t hurt to try and put the toilet seat down either.”

“You’re fighting a losing battle, Suds.”

I wash up the last of the dishes, and wring out the dishcloth. I feel like my stomach is about to explode, but in a good way.

“Now doesn’t that feel better?” Rocco says, his tone heavy with sarcasm as he sidles up next to me, pressing his weight against the bench top.

I frown and eye him suspiciously. He’s biting back a grin, as if he’s a cat that just ate a fucking canary.

“What?” I bark out.

“To eat a decent meal.”

I roll my eyes, because I’m tired. I’m in a food coma. I can’t manage anything else.

“What do you want me to do? Drop to my knees and thank you?”

He thrusts his hips towards me and makes a grunting sound. “Hey, if the mood strikes you.”

“Argh! Enough of the sexual innuendo!” I splash him with enough murky dishwater to soak the front of his shirt.

A hearty chuckle rumbles up his throat. He ducks for cover as I raise my hand to do it again. “Hey, you’re the one talking about dropping to your knees.”

“Figure of speech, De Loser.”

“Take it easy, with the De Loser, Suds.” He dips a finger in the bubbles in the sink and flicks some at my face.

I regard him closely as he uses the tea towel to dab at the moisture on his top. Is he planning on drinking tonight? Here goes nothing.

“So you layin’ off the tequila tonight?” I dare to ask.

“Why?” he asks, with an arrogant lift of his chin.

“You seem less arsehole-ish without it. You’re almost tolerable.”

“Almost?” he asks, raising his dark brow.

I can’t help but smirk. “Yeah, almost.” I hang up the dishtowel and turn to him, one hand to my hip.

“I’ll make you a bet. You lay off the tequila tonight, and I won’t hang up my underwear all over the bathroom.”

“You can hang ’em up if you want. I can’t guarantee I won’t touch them though.”

“Ewww, gross,” I say, as I laugh and lightly punch him in the arm.

“One way or another I’ll get into those panties,” he says with a wink of one of those dark eyes.

I swallow down. My heart jumps in my chest, and the rush of blood to my lady parts takes me by surprise.

I don’t need De Loser talking about getting into my panties.

I don’t need a reminder of the last time someone was in them.

My poor pussy is being neglected.

“Just being honest. No filter, remember?” he says.

“Yeah, I remember.”

Rocco runs his hands down the front of his wet T-shirt and lifts it over his head. He slaps it over his shoulder and then struts towards the hallway. With his back to me, he turns his head, his toned muscles rolling in unison. “Guess I’ll wash this dishwater off me then go to bed.” He narrows his eyes, and takes his time looking me up and down.

I look down at my white T-shirt, and am horrified that my nipples are poking out like fucking headlights. Fuck.

“No shots then?” I challenge, hopefully diverting his attention from my traitorous boobs.

“Guess I can take a night off.”

“Night then,” I mutter.

He lifts his chin in my direction as a silent goodnight, and then enters the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him.

Yes. Definitely less arsehole-ish.

Who knew?

****

Lucky to get a drop of warm water, I have a quick shower once Rocco has gone to bed for the night. I can’t believe he’s gone quietly. I wonder if it has to do with the fact the guys are racing this weekend, and they’re leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow. With all the commotion tonight, I forgot to mention to Rocco that April and I are coming too. Oh well. I’m sure Jones will fill him in.

When I get back to my room, I rub some jasmine-scented moisturiser over my body, taking my time. Yes, I’m aware I’m romancing myself. When my skin feels suitably soft, I slip on my leopard print Victoria’s Secret nighty but don’t bother with the matching G-string. Besides, all my good underwear is hanging off the edge of my wardrobe tonight. Not where De Loser can get his sleazy hands on them.

I rummage through my bag of toys for my lube and favourite dildo. BOB didn’t quite do it for me last night. The vibrations were either too intense or didn’t have the right rhythm. Tonight, I need to go old school. Bonnie and I always preferred this one. I would have fought her tooth and nail to keep it too, but she didn’t put up a fight.

I wonder if Bonnie has company tonight. She’s successful. Sexy. Seductive. Everyone is drawn to her. It’s a shame we were never going to work out, because I swear the best sex of my life was with her. The things she could do with her tongue. Sigh.

Applying lube to the object of my affection this evening, I lie back into the pillow and move my legs apart.

I glide the dildo between my lips, spreading the silky lube. With a few swirls around my clit, I push it in, a little at first until I adjust to the glorious girth.

I want a mouth on me, all over my skin. I want hands to explore, to hold me tight, to touch me softly. I miss that closeness with a person. It doesn’t do the same thing for me, doing it myself.

But I deserve to be single. I’m in such a shitty place that I can’t comprehend having any kind of relationship. I need my head right. My career right. I need to sort my shit. As much as I’m trying to get ahead, I feel as if I’m pushing a hail-bale-size piece of shit up hill. It’s nasty and it’s taking it out of me, but I know when I reach the top I’ll be able to breathe easier. Let’s just hope I can get the stench of shit off my hands.

One day, I’ll be rid of Prince Fuckface and his bloody debt for good. If I believed in God, I’d ask him to help me out. To help me carry the burden, but as my parents drummed into me, I’m going to hell anyway, so what’s the point in praying?

Aware that my breathing is heavy, I throw my head back and allow the moans to rise up my throat. I’m not afraid to get noisy, but there’s a big problem here.

Where the hell is my O? What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I get off?

I move the vibrating dildo faster, tilting it so it reaches that sweet spot. It feels so good, but I’m wound up too tight. I rub at my clit with one hand as I thrust the dildo inside me with the other.

“That’s it … yeah,” I whisper to myself, as I climb to that point of no return. I’ve got this. Oh. I’m almost there. “Oh, God—”

“You alright in here?”

I look up and the fucker is in my doorway, his hair dishevelled, wearing nothing but boxers.

I launch myself up right. “Don’t you knock?” I scream.

His eyes widen. “Don’t you know the walls are paper thin?”

“Argh!” I swing my right arm towards him and before I know it, the dildo leaves my hand and goes flying in his direction.

I gasp, as the scene before me plays out in slow motion. The heavy phallic-shaped object hits him in the eye. He yells out. His head bounces off the doorframe. Rocco’s legs give out and he hits the floor like a pile of rubble.

I scramble from the bed and tug my nighty down. “Shit!”

He isn’t moving. Oh my God. What have I done?

I kneel beside him and slap his cheek. “Rocco,” I repeat a few times, slapping harder until his eyes open.

“Am I dreamin’?” he asks as he reaches out and places his hands on my boobs and squeezes hard.