Slinging a towel around his hips, Dean rubs himself dry with the towel I used earlier before brushing his teeth. As soon as he drops his toothbrush in the caddy and straightens himself over the sink, I finally force myself to close my eyes because at this point, I’m just begging to get caught.
Eyes closed, I listen while Dean exits the bathroom, turning off the light on his way to the chest of drawers where Mateo placed all of his altered clothes. More fabric sliding across skin while he gets dressed for bed, followed by the soft slap of bare feet against the tile floor while he makes his way to his side of the bed. A few noises follow—I imagine him taking off his watch and plugging his phone into its charge cord—before I feel the covers move behind me and the mattress dip under his weight while he settles into the bed next to me.
For a second, I think I’m good.
That I got away with it.
That he doesn’t know I laid here and watched him masturbate like some kind of weird pervert.
But then he speaks.
“Still want to kiss me, Millie?”
Eyes squeezed shut, I feel my entire body stiffen and my gut clench, I wait for him to say something else. Something meant to shame and embarrass me. Remind me of just how uptight and pathetic he thinks I am because that’s what this was. He did what he did—said what he said—because he knew I was awake. Just another one of his button-pushing games.
Or laugh.
Maybe he’ll just laugh at me.
He doesn’t do either of those things.
Dean just turns onto his side and goes to sleep.
TWENTY-EIGHT
When I opened my eyes, it was to find thebed next to me empty and the sun streaming in through the open sliders that lead out onto the bungalow’s deck. The view is spectacular—sparkling, negative edge pool, nearly as blue as the ocean view beyond it, surrounded by lush, green landscape. There’s a hot tub and chaise lounges. The table where we ate dinner together the night we got here.
That’s where Millie is now.
Wearing nothing but the T-shirt I gave her to sleep in, nibbling from a plate of fruit and cheese, a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee beside it while she scrolls on her phone. Bare legs tucked under her in her seat. Her darkblonde hair wrangled into a messy bun on top of her head. Cheeks already pink from the sun while she absently gnaws on her lower lip. Forehead creased with concentration.
By the time I got back to the bungalow last night, I managed to convince myself that I was mistaken. That I didn’t see Millie at the bar. That I conjured her up out of too many tequila shots and my own dirty imagination and when I found her in bed, curled up on the side of the mattress, hands tucked under her chin, same as always, I was sure of it.
But then I saw it.
A short length of white silk tossed on top of the bench at the foot of the bed, small and thin enough for me to wad up and put in my pocket if I wanted to.
A dress.
Picking it up, I see her in it, watching me talk to that woman by the bar.
Millie was there.
She came looking for me and when she saw me with another woman, she left.
Fuck.
Dropping it back where I found it, I went about my business. I did the same exact thing I’ve done every night since we got here. Only this time, instead of imagining that Millie is watching me, I know she is and when I said her name, I made sure I said it loud enough for her to hear me.
Then I got dressed and climbed into bed next to her with every intention of leaving it where it is. She saw me—watched me make myself come—and knows that I was thinking about her while I did it. That should’ve been enough but it wasn’t.
Still want to kiss me, Millie?
I didn’t expect an answer.
But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want one.
Seriously, Mercer? You had the sac to jerk off in front of herbut you don’t have the sac to look her in the eye the next morning? Quit being a little bitch.
