Hating Mr Rank 1

LUKE

Cambridge was nothing more but a place my father threw me to spend the next six months of living. It was where I lost everything that shined brightly before my eyes. And this was where I built my dreams, but shattered into a thousand pieces.

Every friend I had in this dump was now an enemy. This was where "loyalty" and "compassion" was ripped from me.

To deal with everything once more, I should at least enjoy myself in every possible way. I'd booked a suite at the Ritz Carlton, where I was leaning on the bed, tangling the hair of a woman devouring my shaft.

She was teasingly sliding her tongue around my tip. "Do you want it like this?" She looked up at me. I groaned and didn't answer. I pushed her head down as she pressed her lips to cover my whole. Over the whole three hours, I bent her over the table and fucked her endlessly.

It was satisfying, yes, but in the next few days, I had to find someone else.

And then she took me in her mouth again. The pleasure was building up through me, my legs stiffened, and my body was telling me to let go. I slightly pushed her head away, but she didn't move. She went down deeper and sucked me harder. I scowled and tried to pull her even more, but it was too late, but I came in her mouth.

She looked at me, hungrily, and then she swallowed every last drop.

Not bad.

When she's finally moving away, I sprang then zipped my pants.

"It's my first time swallowing, you know, " she informed.

"You shouldn't have, " I said coldly. I need to go.

"Shall we have dinner and then go on with a few rounds?"

I raised an eyebrow, confused. "What happened when you agreed that there wouldn't be the next round?"

That was how exactly women wanted it to start. A senseless conversation, sex, and at the end of the day, she would begin to think there was something more. I was done with that.

"Can't you consider since we've been talking for a few days? It's the examinations this coming week, and I have no time to open my account to chat with you?"

Right, yes. I met her online. I'd met her on MeetandGreet, an online dating site. Her profile said she was a professor at a University.

"No. Thanks. I need to go somewhere else."

"Hmm, why don't we just tell each other something real? My name's Chloe, and I'm not a professor but an undergraduate from Boston University. I'm not really from Harvard. I drove here several hours to meet you, and I don't give my real names to a stranger." She smiled sheepishly as if her lies were something to brag about.

"What, you just screw with them, is that it?" I shook my head in disbelief. The fact that she lied about her name and school was a major turned off. "Are you going to stay here, or do you need fare for the cab?"

"How dare you?" she cursed, her voice raised.

"Is there something wrong with my question?"

"Wow..." She shook her head. "Someday, you'll regret doing this."

"Regret doing what?"

"This. Making a woman waste their time and hope that you're interested, and then you'll fuck her, and then you'll move on to the next."

"I never gave hopes." Where's my wallet? Damn it.

"One day, you'll find your own taste of medicine, " she continued.

Oh, there it is. "You know what, Chloe, or whatever your name is, I don't give a fuck what you think of my future."

***

Five years ago, Harvard was my favorite place. It was where I sat, dreamed, hoped, fell in love, and spent days with the people I trusted. I created my own world with the people I loved, but all of it ended up a broken dream when I found the person I loved the most fucking another man.

I wasn't a dramatic kind of person, well, I was. I was sentimental, compassionate, and considerate—which I now despise about myself.

Fortunately, I was able to redeem half of myself when Dad remarried. My stepmother, Gene, was a bit unacceptable at first. However, she showed me that I could trust another person other than Jake, or Aries. And to end this fucking overview of my life, I liked the person I'd become. At least no one would dare get inside of me again, see through me, and break my trust.

I'd been looking for a woman to screw online since last year. I found it entertaining and interesting, knowing that I could choose whoever I want to screw without commitments.

I never trusted a woman online—all I wanted was their wet core. I scrolled through my inbox and checked if I had emails from women I could meet this weekend.

I deleted the other messages I wasn't in, especially fake profiles. Then, another email popped up. The message was from Ericka. The one and only email I kept in my inbox for some compelling reason. She was twenty-eight, a Harvard graduate, working in an IT company in Cambridge. We'd been sending senseless emails for three months. She was fun to talk to, and she was sexy as fuck when she started the dirty talks.

I opened her message.

Subject: I need help

I need help on deleting your unlimited messages. What is this all about? There were tons of woman to find in this app, and you're supposed to be with one because it's Saturday and yet, you're interrupting me in the middle of my meditation because my mother was trying to set me up to a loser and that loser was my ex-boyfriend I dumped last month. Well, it's not her fault. She didn't know about him.

- Ericka

Subject: Re: I need help