A warm hand grips my cock, stroking unevenly.
I usually appreciate this form of wake-up call, but her choppy strokes leave a lot to be desired. She twists her palm, creating an unpleasant friction. Seriously, who taught this girl how to toss off a cock?
“Ow! Fuck.” I sit up suddenly, yanking my cock out of her grasp. The damn thing is stinging like he got a rug burn. Her sloppy technique almost makes me want to teach her how to properly handle a man’s most important appendage. Almost.
“What’s wrong, sexy?” she purrs, and reaches for my jutting dick again. The fucker is still hard.
I shudder. No. I consider again demonstrating for her. Curl your palm lightly around, just below the crown, slide up . . .
“I have an important meeting this morning.”
“On a Sunday?” she says with a pout.
Rising to my feet, I grab a pair of sweats from my dresser and tug them on. “I have to be at church in an hour.” I’m totally going to hell for that lie.
She nods. Her blond hair is matted on one side, not that I can fault her for that; I’m pretty sure I got cum in it last night. Things got a little wild, and apparently I broke my own rule about letting a hookup stay over. Still, I always treat women with respect, so even if she was just yanking on my cock like it was a garden hose, I’m not going to yell or throw her out.
Trust me, she’ll be leaving in five minutes, tops, but she’ll do so with a pleasant smile on her face, and a thank you for last night on her lips.
Why, you ask?
Because I’m Sterling Fucking Quinn, successful attorney, one of New York City’s most sought-after bachelors, and in addition to a rather nice appendage, knickers melt when I open my mouth. I grew up in England, and my British accent is like lube. It makes girls wet instantly.
While she dresses, I grab my phone and see I have forty-two missed calls and dozens of voice mails and texts. Most of them are from my uncle Charles, who I haven’t spoken with since the last ten-year family union. And several are from my best friend, Noah.
What in the hell?
I dial my uncle Charles and wait while it rings.
“Sterling, thank God I’ve reached you. I have some rather shocking news.”
My first thought is that something happened to my mum. I pad barefoot out to the living room to give my guest some privacy in the loo. I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, my jaw hanging open and one hand down the front of my pants, checking my sore cock for injuries as I try to comprehend what Charles is saying.
Something about my mother’s grandfather, who I never met and honestly didn’t know was still living, and a will and millions of dollars at stake.
“Get to the bloody point, Charles. What are you saying?”
“Are you near a TV?” he asks.
I grab the remote and turn the TV on.
An image of my face is on CNN. The picture is one of me smiling in a Yankees T-shirt, taken this summer. It’s from my personal social media account.
What the fuck? The newscaster is saying something about an inheritance.
“In a plot suited for the big screen, this is anything but fiction. Sterling Quinn, a New York lawyer, is reportedly set to gain a multi-million-dollar inheritance upon marrying.”
I hear footsteps behind me and click the button on the remote, silencing the TV.
“I’ll call you back, Charles.” After I go throw up.
“Is that you?” the girl whose name I can’t recall asks, her eyes widening at the headlines flashing across the screen.
I make a noise of agreement, suddenly fucking speechless.
“You have to get married?” she asks, her voice softening. Cum-Hair Barbie is looking at me with renewed interest.
“Church. I have to get to church,” I mutter again. This time it’s not a lie. I need to pray to God this is all a dream.
There’s no way I’m ever getting married, not for all the money in the world.
Except . . .
I realize with horror how very fucked I am.