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Would they be rough? Yes, of course they would be. They would be harsh and demanding. He would pinch me until I shrieked, twist and pull, wringing pain and pleasure from me in equal measure. His huge hands would flatten them, leave bruises on the soft, pale flesh, and I would love every second of it.
    A man like Kent fucked you so painfully the pure avalanche of sensation would push you over the edge. He was the kind of man you fucked because you wanted to stop feeling. The kind of man you fucked because you hated your life. A self-destructive fuck, one that would end in tears and arson.
    No wonder I was so attracted to him.
    He wouldn't stop staring at me. In self-defense I closed my eyes, but it just made it worse. The music rode a harsh, painful beat, and to my shock my core squeezed tight, contracting around empty space, aching to be filled. Without my consent my tongue slipped from between my teeth and I began to lick my lips, my breath coming in quick, hot bursts.
    This was bad. This was very very bad. I had to get out of here—but I couldn't leave, and I couldn't very well stick my fingers into my panties in front of everyone. I mean, I probably could, but it wasn't late enough for that and no one was inebriated enough. Opening my eyes I tore my face away from Kent's and glanced wildly around the room, searching for something, anything to occupy my mind.
    There was nothing around me. I could always pull out my phone and try to find something on my crappy data connection that would distract me long enough to escape from the sensations of the music, but my skin was starting to tingle. If I sat here any longer I would spread my legs and begin grinding into the floor.
    Abruptly I stood, stumbling, feeling drunk. No one paid me any mind except Carter, who looked up with a question on his face—and Kent. I felt his gaze burning into me. I had to escape it. I couldn't breathe.
    My eyes alighted on the white ladder leading up to the small loft above the practice area. Sucking air through my teeth I practically sprinted across the small room and scrambled up the rungs. I ignored the stumbling of the bass beat and hauled myself up over the edge, panting hard as the music crowded the space between the floor of the loft and the ceiling. Kent had dropped out and I was glad that his pounding rhythm no longer pursued me.
    That didn't change the fact that my pussy still pulsed and ached, begging for a pounding, for skilled fingers to stroke me into a sweet, hot frenzy, for a firm tongue to flutter against my clit until I exploded. Licking my lips, I rubbed my thighs together restlessly, my eyes flitting about the loft, searching for that fridge full of beer Carter had mentioned.
    What I got instead was an eyeful. An eyeful of disaster, that is.
    The music faded from my consciousness as I was assaulted on all sides by mess.
    The loft was terrifying in its thorough destruction. Clothes, old pizza boxes, tragically abandoned beer bottles, cigarette butts and old roaches of both the drug and the insect kind—all of them blotted out the sensations of the music, completely and thoroughly. All thoughts of surreptitiously masturbating up here in the loft flew from my skull. There was no way— no way— anyone, anywhere, could be sexy up here unless they were high as hell.
    Which would probably explain the used condoms sitting in an old peanut butter jar next to the ladder. Suddenly I wished I had a hazmat suit.
    Cleaning. Making home wherever you found it. Aside from being a sadsack that let life happen to her, asserting control over my environment was the only thing I was good at it, and as the thrum of the bass picked up again I knew I had to block it out by whatever means necessary. Kent Hudson was dangerous to me; I'd just escaped one destructive relationship, and I didn't need another one. That was all I saw on the horizon with a man who had contracted me to play the part of girlfriend to his wayward brother, and who could not, it