Now I was lying in bed like a teenage boy who just saw a bra strap for the first time.
I rolled over and groaned into my pillow.
I should text her.
Ishould nottext her.
I sat up, then laid back down.
I was a professional. I was a grown man. I had a mortgage.
I could handle a hot woman climbing into my lap and rubbing against me until I literally lost control of my bodily functions. I could benormal.
Right?
I was not being normal. I was being weird and stiff and sweaty. Like some virginal little church boy who’d just been blessed with the presence of a goddess and now didn’t know what to do with himself.
Which was insulting.
I hadgame.I hadexperience.I —
She was still on my skin. Her mouth, her laugh, her thighs, the way she moved on top of me like we weren’t surrounded by producers and actors and chlorinated sin.
God.
I snatched my phone,anythingto distract me from the thought of her thighs clenched around my waist and her breathy little gasps in my ear.
I was mid-scroll on her Instagram —just to see if she posted anything, okay?— when my phone started ringing.
MOM
“Shit,” I muttered, sitting up and praying I could sound a little less… strung up than I felt.
“Hey ma,”
“Ansel!” I could hear something egregious in her voice. That scared me. “Who is she?”
“Who—” But I didn’t have time to finish.
“The girl in the picture. Your cousin Eloise sent the family group chat a link to a celebrity article. I’ll send it to you!”
My phone buzzed again, and I really,really, dreaded opening a gossip site.
Oh, hell.
It was us. Poolside. Her knees around me, her arms around my neck, my face buried against her throat like I was either about to die or had just been resurrected. I lookedwrecked.Because Iwas.
God.
My hands were on her ass.
I don’t evenremembergrabbing her ass.
“Y-yeah,” I stammered, embarrassment creeping up my throat.
Mymotherhad seen this picture.
“It’s not — she’s — It’s not what it looks like.”
