The
Pretender, Jarod/Miss Parker, post-"Gigolo Jarod." Hide the
children,
this one's smutty. 199 words.
MY
FUNNY VALENTINE
I
HAVE HAD many names. She has none. They're scared of her, so they say
Miss like it's a given name, like it might be what saves them the next
time
she's trigger-happy and tone-deaf.
She
growls into my ear, a low whistle of dissatisfaction that thrums
through
my body like an underwater explosion and I sprawl back on the
bed, tracing
the edge of my tuxedo shirt where it rests upon my stomach.
There
are names for women like her, not that there have been many, or
many who
have used one and lived. Vixen. Bitch. Femme fatale. But she's
not a thing
that comes when it's called.
Fuck
love, then, and Valentines and all the rest. I drop the phone
beside
me and close my eyes. Her legs rise like skyscrapers, all steel
and strength,
and I pull her down so she's straddling me. Her short
little skirt
is bunched up on my bare chest. I slide my fingers into
her.
She's not so cold inside.
She
calls and I come, the kind of hard, desperate moaning thrust into a
pillow
that almost makes you choke. She calls and I come, but I only
ever call her.
END.