Gus Read Online Free Page B

works for me. And she sounds ambitious, saying something about how she's "committed to helping us succeed" and "keeping this crazy train on the tracks." I almost laugh to myself—good luck with that.
    I roll out of my bunk and stagger toward the sound of their voices. The stand-in is sitting at the table behind the driver. Her skirt is so short it's almost non-existent. Thin, mile-long legs are crossed at the knee and presented like an exhibition out in the aisle. They're the first thing I see. The second thing I notice is her blouse. It's strategically unbuttoned to frame her impressive cleavage. The third thing I notice is ... nothing, because I'm still fixated on her legs and breasts. It's February and we're in Sweden (I think) and it's snowy and cold as hell outside—she's definitely not dressed for the weather.
    Sex. I'm not gonna lie, it's all I'm thinking about at the moment. Sex with that body. Somewhere in the back of my mind I feel like an asshole for immediately going there .
    Sex, for me, used to be about exploration of a woman's body, an appreciation of the act itself, a mastery of my craft, and, well, intimacy. Watching a woman come unhinged with pleasure and passion as a direct result of my touch, my body, is fascinating and hot as hell. I've never been in a relationship, but I've been with plenty of women. I lost my virginity when I was fourteen—to a seventeen-year-old, no less—and the train's been in motion since. I wouldn't say I'm good-looking, but I'm decent in the looks department and the ladies seem to like my body. I'm six-foot three, and I used to surf a lot, which kept me in good shape. I'm a big guy. Muscular. Chicks dig big guys.
    But everything I knew about sex changed when it happened with someone I loved. Last August—Bright Side. We'd known each other our entire lives. She was my next-door neighbor—my best friend. I was so in love with her, but she never knew it. She was funny, smart, talented, and fucking gorgeous. The most perfect creature God ever created. And that one night was all about exploration, appreciation, and intimacy. She's the most responsive lover I've ever had, but it was so much more. It was emotional ; the best fucking night of my life. Period.
    How do you follow that up? The answer is: you don't. At least not with any kind of honest effort. Every woman I've been with since is just a fuck. Plain and simple fucking. I'm in it to get off and that's it—quick and dirty. Selfish? Absolutely. Does it make me feel like a dirtbag? Absolutely. For all that, it's still astonishing how many willing participants I get. It's sad how anxious and indiscreet they are—no shame ... no pride. But you know what? It's not my job to parent a twenty-five-year-old woman just because someone else has clearly failed in that department. So, yeah, I let them accommodate me. I turn my attention back to the stand-in, and let my eyes drift up to her face. It's commercially pretty: big, dark eyes; high, prominent cheekbones; and full lips—all aided by a heavy coat of makeup. I'm a fan of natural beauty myself, but these days I can overlook that kind of thing. She's probably in her mid-thirties given the smile lines that frame her mouth. She's staring at me with her heavily lined eyes. She's stopped talking to Franco now that I'm here, and her expression is like an open book—easy to read.  
    She excuses herself from the conversation and stands to meet me in the aisle, extending a hand. "You must be Gustov." She's talking to my bare chest.  
    I shake her hand. "I must be," I say, not embarrassed in the least by the fact that I'm standing here in my underwear on the verge of an erection.
    From my peripheral, I catch Franco out of the corner of my eye behind her. He's shaking his head slowly and he's wearing his serious face. He rarely brings out his serious face. It all adds up to say, Don't do it. He's been my wingman for years and he has an uncanny gift for spotting batshit crazy a mile