The Kings Of Cool

172

But as the saying goes, close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and certain presidential elections.

Chon lies in bed in his apartment-fighting jet lag and residual pain-when the door opens and O comes in.

He watches her slip out of her clothes.

Her body pale in the moonlight that comes through the window.

She gets onto the bed and carefully straddles him.

“Don’t think I’ve missed you or I love you,” she says, “or that I’m not pissed at you for turning me down the last time. This is just a mercy fuck for a wounded vet.”

“Got it.”

“A patriotic gesture,” she says, bending down, amazingly supple for a girl for whom exercise is anathema. “Like tying a yellow ribbon around something.”

She takes him in her mouth, makes him hard(er), then straightens up and hovers over him.

“Just lie there and let me do all the work,” she says.

“O?”

“Chon?”

“Don’t hurt me.”