“And I wanted to enjoy your amazing body and filthy mind a little longer this time.”
“The only filthy mind here is yours,” she laughed, her head falling against my arm.
I wanted to laugh but my body’s need to mate, to mark, closed in on me, and I lost myself there. My hold on the necklace tightened, the chain taut and tense, then snapping and pooling in my fist.
Roaring my release, my fingers scribbled over her twice before submitting to a full-body shiver that bordered on seizure.
It wasn’tifthere would be a next time.
It waswhen.
Chapter Seven
LAUREN
Finger-combing my hairin the elevator’s mirrored walls was my new reality. All things considered, it was only worse than crying in a stairwell or shopping away my feelings in that I smelled and looked like stale sex.
Oh, and I wasn’t wearing any panties.
Minor details.
I clutched my shoes under my arm and balanced the handles of my tote in the crook of my elbow while thumbing mascara smudges from under my eyes. My wrinkly raincoat slipped over the sides of the tote, raspberry welts stained my neck, collarbone, and chest, and there was no mistaking it: I was embarking upon my first walk of shame.
The elevator arrived at the lobby of Matthew’s building and my bare feet marched straight to the security desk. “I need a cab. Could you request one for me?”
Ignoring the guard’s knowing grin as he lifted the phone, I wiggled into my shoes and winced at patches of blue and purple on my shins.
“Two or three minutes, miss,” the guard announced.
I murmured my thanks and set to righting my raincoat, and dismissed the idea of asking whether Matthew welcomed many guests of the ridden-hard-and-put-up-wet variety.
This little activity was over, and Matthew’s social life was none of my business.
I stepped out into the morning fog as it rolled off the harbor, the air of confidence in my steps entirely hollow. I avoided the cobblestones but memories of his hands on my waist, his arms holding me close, and his lips against mine swirled around me.
Glancing back at Matthew’s building before settling into the cab, I saw the first rays of sunlight cresting the horizon. “Beacon Hill. Chestnut at River Street,” I called to the cabbie.
Six feet separated Matthew’s bed from the bank of windows but it had taken us hours to get there. The memories were fuzzy yet oddly vivid, not unlike riding a high-speed roller coaster and seeing specific faces in the crowd below, but I wasn’t able to distinguish the second time from the third or fourth, or the quiet, close moments in between when laughed and touched and kissed.
Once we made our way to the bed, Matthew fit my body against his, my back connecting with his strong chest and his arms crisscrossed over my torso.
“Stay,” he whispered into my hair. “We’re not done. Not even close. Stay right here. Promise me.”
My fingers reached over my shoulder and kneaded the muscles at the nape of his neck. He hid all of his tension there. “Okay.”
He fell asleep quickly and I tried to follow, but my brain shot into overdrive. When the adrenaline and pheromones crashed, the reality of our wild night hit me dead center. I stared at Matthew’s arms and the way they locked around me, caging me. My chest started heaving, and it wouldn’t have surprised me to see my heart pounding up through layers of muscle and tissue, bursting out of my chest, sprouting legs, and scrambling out the door.
I didn’t do this. I didn’t have one-night stands. I didn’t go home with men I barely knew. I didn’t have sex, period.
Especially notthatkind of sex.
Everything Isaid, everything Idid—none of it was me, and I needed to forget the entire night. Chalk it up to a moment of weakness. A first time for everything. A lapse in otherwise spotless judgment. A wild oat, or whatever.
And handling the morning after? Oh God, help me. I didn’t want to navigate any awkward discussions about our very important and very imaginary Saturday morning responsibilities, and I really didn’t want to crawl around looking for my panties while he admired the handprints he left on my ass. Hollow promises to call or connect later would have only made a weird situation worse.
Breaking out from under his bear trap arms, grabbing whichever pieces of clothing I could find, and getting the hell out of there had been the only option. Writing a note crossed my mind, but with the pen poised over the page of my notebook, I couldn’t find the words. Was there an apropos morning-after message?
Thanks for a fun time, but I will die of mortification if you ever make eye contact with me again.
