I snort at my own awful joke, then immediately feel daft. This is serious. This is life and death.
Once you accept that nothing matters, there’s a strange kind of freedom in choosing for yourself, even if it’s the last choice you ever make.
And I choose to get rid of the V-card I’ve guarded so carefully until now.
God, I’m so out of my depth.
I close my eyes and let myself imagine it. Bodhi’s massive hands on my skin. His weight over me, that low growl he makes, except instead of frustration, it would be desire, those brown eyes blazing as I make him lose control.
Heat pools low in my belly, and I squeeze my thighs together, biting my lip.
Okay. It might not be quite like that, but still. A girl can dream. Except I don’t need a dream right now, I need a plan. An actual plan, not just fantasies.
Focus.
The problem is I have absolutely no idea how to seduce a man. My ex-fiancé was my high school sweetheart, a friendship first that grew into more. But when I wanted to wait until we were married, and it became clear he only proposed because he thought that would seal the deal, I got a nasty insight into the mindset of some young men. He dumped me and then slept with my frenemy from the swim team barely a week later.
It cemented a dark belief in my mind that I was never quite able to shake. Men want my body, not me. And so, I decided they weren’t getting it. Not until I wascertain.
Since then, my dating history consists of a few awkward boyfriends in college, some fumbling make-out sessions with a friend of my brother’s, including one deeply uncomfortable incident involving a bra clasp that neither of us could figure out. Each time they pursued me, but I was able to shut things down whenever I wanted.
I’ve read spicy books. I’ve watched movies. Bodhi’s right though, I have no real experience.
And here, at the mercy of a house full of gangsters, I doubt I’ll be able to stop things escalating once they start. I certainly can’t expect romance and tenderness, or even mind-blowing orgasms.
So, I might not know what I’m doing, but I do know one thing: Bodhi wants me. I felt the evidence of that pretty clearly last night, so his body might be on board, even if his mouth is saying otherwise.
I’ll just have to break down his resistance. Appeal to his baser instincts and shut down that rational, thinking side of his brain. How hard can it be?
A floorboard creaks somewhere in the corridor outside.
My eyes snap open, and I hold my breath as I listen to careful footsteps getting closer.
Anticipation builds inside me. It’s like the air in the room changes, grows thicker, charged with electricity. Somehow, I know it’s him. I can feel it in my gut. My skin prickles with awareness, and I swear I can almost smell him, a woodsy scent that surrounded me when he pinned me to the bed last night.
He’s coming.
My heart kicks into a gallop. This is it. Time to put my non-existent seduction skills to the test.
The footsteps stop outside my door, and he doesn’t move for a second, his breathing steady and even as he waits, for what, I don’t know.
When I hear the soft clink of metal as a key slides into the lock, I move without thinking, throwing off the covers and darting across the room. Snatching a fistful of underwear from the top drawer, all brand new with tags still on, I dart into the bathroom.
The bathroom door swings shut behind me just as I hear the main door begin to open.
“Emma?” His voice, so deep and rough with something that might be concerning, makes my stomach flip.
I ignore it and turn on the shower, cranking the heat until steam starts to fill the small space.
“Emma? You in there?” He’s closer now, a gentle click telling me he’s stepped inside and shut the door.
“Shower.” I call back, trying to sound casual and not like I’m having a minor panic attack. “Give me a minute.”
I strip off the dress I slept in and step under the spray, gasping at the heat. I didn’t realise how much I needed to wash the stress of yesterday away until the warm water hits my skin. I grab a bottle of something that smells expensive and floral, squirting it into my palm and running it through my hair, over my shoulders, and down my arms.
If I’m going to do this, I can’t smell like stale cigar smoke from that club last night.
Thirty seconds. That’s all I allow before I shut off the water, step off and towel dry, giving myself a pep talk as I slip on some lacy underwear that leaves very little to the imagination. I can see my nipples through the thin material, which is equally transparent at the gusset.
