Decline (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

washed off the soap, I debated a quick wank to alleviate the pressure before going out; something to tide me over until I could find some little cutie willing to fulfil my wishes. The issue was, there was only ever one image which could get me off that way, and I definitely didn’t want to be thinking about her just then. Not so soon after she’d caused me to crash. Again.
    Turning off the water, I shoved open the door and grabbed a towel from the rack nearby. While I was towelling off, I caught sight of my own reflection and scowled at myself in disgust.
    What have you become? You’re fucking pathetic.
    I threw the towel at the mirror, and turned to leave the room to find an outfit that was guaranteed to help me score. Black satin boxers were my staple item for a night out, and over the top I threw on a pair of slacks that did nothing to hide any boner I would have. I topped it off with a collared shirt that had sleeves easy enough to roll up to show off my arms—that always seemed to drive women crazy. I usually would have thrown on a team shirt, but I didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that I might no longer be part of Sinclair Racing.
    My solution to the whole situation was simple. I was going to do what I always did: hit the town, get absolutely shitfaced, and find some pussy to bury myself in. The problems would still be there in a day or two, but at least I could get some semblance of relief before I had to face them.
    The taxi arrived while I was still getting dressed, but I just waved at the driver through the window to let him know I was aware that he’d arrived and then finished what I was doing. He could wait five minutes; it wasn’t like he wasn’t getting paid after all. Before I left, I downed a shot of whiskey to get a jump on things, and then grabbed a Corona from the fridge for the road.
    Within half an hour, I was being ushered into the VIP room of my favourite club, Firebird. I loved it more than most clubs because I felt at home there. The whole place was themed with a garage motif. The sign out front was a bonnet from a Firebird, complete with phoenix, secured to a chrome bumper in front of an old roller door. Inside was more of a typical nightclub, with an ambiance aimed at privacy and secret deeds. The music was always loud, the drinks were always flowing, and the women were always loose. It was the perfect place to disappear and satisfy my cravings for booze and a wet pussy to sink myself into.
    The VIP area was set up better than most I’d seen. Lining the edges of the space were six private booths, each with a set of black satin curtains that could be drawn for a little extra privacy. It meant I could take what I needed without having the hassle of bringing any girls back to my house. It certainly saved a taxi fare and awkward conversation in the morning.
    I secured my booth, ensuring I had one regardless of how many people were allowed past the velvet rope, and then ordered a drink. Once I was comfortable, I sat back to scope out the talent.
    There were three blondes, four brunettes, and a redhead. That meant my choices were instantly narrowed from eight to four. I couldn’t do brunettes. I’d tried, a few times actually, but I just . . . couldn’t. They’d all been absolutely fine pieces of arse too. It was just that every time I saw one of them sucking my cock, or bent over in front of me, I’d pictured Alyssa. And I couldn’t picture her as one of these skanks—as some random piece of tail to use, abuse, and recycle. She was special.
    The redhead and her blonde friend were dancing rather closely together on the dance floor. When she spotted me watching her, a smirk broke across her lips and their dancing grew even more risqué. I necked my beer and drank, all without taking my eyes off of the pair of them.
    The redhead grinned at me, winked and then starting kissing her friend, making certain that I saw every stroke of her tongue and every shift of her fingers over her