Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

JOHNNY JR. WANTS A TASTE

JOHNNY

Sorry about last night,

T.

P.S. I didn't know what you liked for breakfast, so I made you a little bit of everything.

That was the note I found on my kitchen island that morning when I stumbled downstairs, groggy and disoriented. Next to it were two ibuprofens and the biggest, most delicious-looking breakfast spread I had ever seen. There was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a strawberry and banana smoothie, perfectly scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, a bowl of creamy yogurt topped with crunchy granola, and a stack of pancakes adorned with sliced banana and drizzled with maple syrup.

Without hesitation, I dug in, savoring every bite. There was no way in fucking hell I was leaving a single crumb for Gibsie. Another thing I could check off my list—my angel was a goddess in the kitchen.

The events of last night were a blurry mess in my head. I had drunk way too many pints, trying to avoid Bella and the drama she brought with her. She had been all over me, her hands too familiar, her touch unwelcome. When I finally told her to stop, she had looked at me like I was the heart-breaking bastard who had promised her the bleeding moon only to toss her aside like a fucking used tissue.

Fucking double standards

Consent went both ways, and no still meant no, whether it was a guy or a girl saying it. Yet, we lived in a fucked up society where a man couldn't claim to be touched inappropriately by a woman without it being dismissed or ignored.

And just as I had planned to leave, Gibsie had shown up with her—my angel. Thank God, he had pushed Bella off my lap and put Tara in her place. However, something was off about her. I could feel it in my bones. When I saw the red handprint on her cheek, my mind immediately flashed back to the incident with that bastard months ago. But this time, the handprint looked too small to belong to a man.

I didn't remember much of our conversation, the haze of alcohol clouding my memory, but I did remember the overwhelming feeling of needing to protect her. It was the same gut-wrenching urge I'd felt the first time I met her.

Try as I might, I couldn't recall our whole conversation, but what my brain and my dick did remember was that, at some point, she had offered us sex.

I had never felt so fucking miserable.

My dick was broken. Tara had offered me sex on a plate, and I couldn't give it to her because my fucking dick was broken. I knew I would never have slept with her. We were both drunk, and it wouldn't have been the right thing to do. But that didn't stop me from fantasizing about the idea.

There was no denying that Tara was an absolute goddess, her presence alone capable of taking my breath away every time I saw her. Admittedly, she was skinnier than the women I was used to, but she more than made up for it in those legs of hers—long, lithe, and seemingly endless. Her naturally puffy lips, soft and full, always seemed to curve into an effortless smirk that could melt the hardest of hearts or stir the deepest of desires and the way she carried herself, a self-assured confidence that drew men in with the kind of promise that made it hard to think clearly, let alone act rationally.

So, like any teenage eejit, I found myself lost in fantasies about her and all the things I wanted to do to her.

Sue me.

I fantasized about her wearing one of my rugby shirts, the kind with my last name and my number emblazoned on the back. I didn't give a shite about the lingerie she chose to wear. That was her choice but my jersey was something I wouldn't budge on.