CHAPTER 9

When Matt Kingston isn’t dominating a boardroom, he’s usually found on his private, half-court basketball setup tucked into the wing of his London estate. 

He never had delusions of joining the NBA, but he worshipped the grit of the game. It was a high-speed, physical escape where the only thing that mattered was the arc of the ball and the snap of the net. 

He just wanted to be a regular guy for a few days, far away from the constant buzz of his multi-million dollar firm.

He sinks a final, perfect three-pointer, the ball swishing through the net with a satisfying snap. 

Sweat clings to his grey jersey, mapping out the hard, ripped lines of his chest and abs. He heads into the master suite for a shower, but as he passes the marble vanity, his phone starts dancing.  

"Crazy bitch," he mutters, not even needing to see the ID to know it was that crazy bitch from two nights ago. 

She’d spent the last twenty four hours blowing up his line, convinced that one night of him rearranging her internal organs meant they were headed for a white picket fence and a dog.

But Matt doesn't do "falling in love."  He is the king of the one-night stand. 

Once the sun comes up, the shit is over. You’re lucky if he even remembers your middle name, let alone calls you twice. To be honest, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt a real thrill drilling any of those holes. 

Every hole he’s drilled lately has been the same. He gets off, sure, but none of those girls had the fire or the friction to actually knock him off his feet. It was just a biological release, like scratching an itch.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt like the girl who’d finally make him feel like he was losing control was out there and he’ll recognize her the second she steps into his orbit. 

The phone keeps ringing. He wonders for a split second how the hell she even got his private number. With a grunt of annoyance, he swiped his thumb across the screen and blocked her. Problem solved.

He peels off his damp jersey and shorts, kicking them into the corner before stepping under the rainfall showerhead. 

The warm water hits him head-to-toe, steaming up the glass. As the heat sinks into his muscles, his dick rises into a thick, veined, and throbbing  solid six inches of dark, morning-wood energy that stands at full attention under the spray like it has a mind of its own.

Out of pure, idle habit, he fumbles with his balls, feeling the weight of them while the water sluices down his chest.

He reaches for the soap, lathering up his broad shoulders and the chiseled planes of his stomach.  

He’s got a schedule to keep. He’s meeting his nigga at his private lounge in an hour. It’ll be the usual routine: talk shop, drink overpriced Scotch, and by tonight, he’ll probably head home with some new chick.

Another girl who’ll spend the night moaning down the roof, begging him not to stop drilling her hole with his massive cock, until she’s a shaking mess, only for him to forget her face by breakfast.

But as he rinses the suds off his chest, Matt can't shake the feeling that he is getting bored of his sex life. He needs a spark.