“Yeah.” I reluctantly nod, even though she can’t see because she still won’t look at me.
“Good.” She walks backward. “I’ll be in touch.”
Then she takes off running, and confused and horny as shit, I watch her until she’s out of sight.
I take a shower the instant I get back to the dorm, coming hard against the wall as I imagine it’s Emily pumping my cock to release.
6
Emily
“You’re not coming to the fundraiser dressed like that,” Mom says, frowning as she examines me from head to toe.
I narrow my eyes, wanting to tell her she doesn’t look good in red or she should’ve worn a pantsuit like she usually does to university functions, anything to get on her nerves, but I know my criticism of her will only fall on deaf ears.
“What is wrong with this dress?” I gesture at the elegant, black floor-length gown she bought me for the annual university ball last year.
She swipes a hand up the back of her head, making sure not a strand of her blonde hair is out of place in her tight chignon. “You wore it last year, and a lot of the same guests will be in attendance, for one.”
“So what?” I flap my hands around. “It’s not like anyone’s going to remember what I was wearing.” True fact. Most people don’t give a rat’s ass who I am.
“They remember.” She gives me a tight smile. “You might as well just prop your naked breasts on the table for all the coverage it offers.”
It’s true it plunges straight down to my navel, and I can’t wear a bra, so it showcases some boob but not to the extent she’s implying. Mom is a B-cup, at most, and I’m a generous D-cup. It’s always bugged her, and the fact it does bugs me.
If she’s that envious, she can always get a boob job.
It’s not like she can’t afford it. Both my parents have high-paying jobs, and Mom comes from a wealthy family. When her father died three years ago, he left his entire estate to her. Mom could easily retire now and enjoy a comfortable life until she dies.
I admire the fact she wants to keep working, and I’m proud of her career. But she has achieved it at the expense of everything else in her life, and I don’t admire her for that.
When I needed her most, she wasn’t there for me.
And I won’t ever forget that.
It’s a pity my grandfather placed a stipulation on the trust fund he bequeathed me, ensuring I can’t get my hands on the money until I’m thirty. Or maybe he knew what he was doing. Because if I had access to that cash now, I’d be long gone.
“If that’s how you feel, why did you buy it for me in the first place?” I ask.
She rubs at her chest in obvious annoyance. “I didn’t realize it was so revealing.” Her blue gaze drifts to the clock on the wall in the living room. “I don’t want to be late, and we need to leave in five minutes. Go change into the green dress I bought you for tonight, and hurry.”
I’m cursing her under my breath as I stomp up the stairs, returning a few minutes later in said aforementioned dress. This one isn’t half as pretty, but I have zero fucks to give.
“That’s much more appropriate,” she says, nodding her head in agreement.
The dark-green dress has a tight-fitting bodice with a heavy lace overlay across the chest, which adequately squeezes and conceals my boobs, and the hem rests midway between my knee and calf. It’s like something you’d put on an older woman, but I don’t complain because I just want this night to be over.
I hate going to these things, because they’re usually boring as fuck, and I’m forced to make small talk with a bunch of overweight middle-aged men and their mute wives, who sip their wine while sitting dutifully by their husband’s sides even as they ogle my breasts and flirt with me outrageously.
But I’m especially dreading tonight because I’m pretty sure Wes is going to be there. It’s why I’ve just drained a quarter bottle of vodka for liquid courage. I’m going to need it to help me survive this night.
* * *
“Stop fidgeting,”Mom hisses in my ear as she smiles and nods at a few new arrivals from our position at the bar.
The ballroom is humming from the clinking of glasses to the soft music spilling out of the speakers overhead.
“The dress is scratchy and hot,” I complain, fighting the urge to pull at the coarse fabric again.
