She makes a protesting growl in the back of her throat. “What time is it?” she asks, rolling onto her back and stretching her limbs out around her. Her tits threaten to break free from the rest of her body as they protrude unnaturally high off her bony sternum with the arch of her back.

Christ, she’s skinny as fuck. I shouldn’t be able to see the outline of every damn rib, but this chick doesn’t have any fat on her. Instead of fucking her last night, I should’ve force-fed her some carbs.

I look down at my dick.

Standards. Let’s re-think those.

In the morning light, she’s doing nothing for me. Nothing. I prefer soft women with hips and shape, who look like they eat more than a piece of lettuce for a meal. I’m also partial to real tits, as opposed to the cement filled ones I had in my mouth last night. I get it. It’s their bodies, and women can do whatever they want to them. But I don’t know a man who doesn’t have a preference. Mine just doesn’t happen to be hers. Even as this chick turns on her side, propping her head on her hand and gesturing at me with a crook of her finger, her tits dart out in the most unnatural way possible. Like they can defy gravity, or the opposite, sink her to the bottom of an ocean.

“Come here. Play with me,” her throaty morning voice attempts to bait me.

I shake my head, taking a step back to evade the hand she’s holding out for me. “Were you not present during our conversation last night? I told you, you gotta go first thing. Get up.”

She drops her hand to the bed. “Really? You’re going to kick me out right now instead of sliding between my legs?”

“I’d never kick a woman.”

“But you will spank her.”

I cock an eyebrow, staring down at the proud gleam sparking back to life in her eyes.

She thinks she has me as she waits expectantly for me to pounce, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

She never had me. I made sure of that.

I bend down, pick her pile of clothes off the floor, and toss them onto the bed, covering most of her body up. “Like I said, I’d never kick a woman, but I will carefully, but very efficiently, remove you from my house in ten seconds if you’re not out of here. Clothed or not.” I raise my wrist in front of my face, staring at my nonexistent watch. “Time starts now. I’d get moving if I were you.”

“Shit! What’s wrong with you?” she grumbles as she throws her body out of bed, fisting her clothing in her hands. “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you? Throw me out half naked.”

“Obviously. I’m counting.”

She frantically slides into her skirt, fastens two of the buttons on her blouse, and clutches her panties and bra in her hand as she steps into her heels.

“Nice hustle. You might make it.”

“You’re a dick,” she scolds as she grabs her clutch off my nightstand and heads out of the bedroom. “What the hell kind of guy passes on morning sex?”

“The kind that specifically said you weren’t getting any last night. Two seconds.”

And the kind who no longer has any desire to fuck a skeleton.

She flings the front door open with a loud grunt, cranks her head around to glare at me, and flips me off.

I smile behind my coffee mug. “See, now this is why I didn’t fuck you this morning. My cock only gets hard for ladies.” I lean out onto the porch and watch her storm across the grass, fury in each step.

She hates me. Most of them do after our one night together. I don’t fucking get it. I’m clear, really fucking clear about not wanting anything to do with them the next day, and in the moment, they are more than willing to agree to those terms. But shit happens the next day with women. They forget all about our little pre-fuck chat, and I’m left throwing their asses out, looking like the bad guy.

I’m not a bad guy. I just can’t give them anything more than this.

This is how my Saturday mornings usually start. Sundays too.

Stripping the bed after I get whoever-the-hell out of it, taking a hot shower to remove any trace of sex, sweat, and pussy off my body, and hovering over my Keurig like a strung-out junkie, consuming cup after cup of caffeine until I feel alert.

I can’t do this shit during the week. My job requires my ass to be out of bed by 5:00 a.m., and after a night of fucking, I’m usually dragging until noon. More importantly, I need to be focused while I’m at work. My job isn’t dangerous, not in the same way as Ben or Luke’s, buddies of mine who are both cops, but if I’m not paying attention to what I’m doing, someone could get seriously fucked up.

I’ve been working construction since I was eighteen years old, but I knew how to operate a backhoe long before that. In fact, I knew how to work almost every piece of heavy machinery on the site before I could drive a car. That’s what happens when you’re forced to spend every summer at the shop from the time you can take an order to go fetch a tool. I didn’t complain. I wanted to be there. While my friends were swimming at Rocky Point, I was following my father and grandfather around, soaking up as much knowledge from them as possible.

I loved it. The smell of grease, sweat, and earth. The calluses hardening my skin after lugging around equipment.

Being outside, getting my hands dirty, climbing on all the machinery. I knew I wanted to learn the trade by the time I was thirteen. After getting a taste of working outside all day, the feel of the sun beating down on my back, I knew I’d never be satisfied with a nine-to-five desk job. If I had to wear a suit every day, I’d punch someone. I’d go fucking stir crazy in an office building, and I’d probably end up being admitted into some psych ward somewhere if I had to work in one of those fucking cubicles.