“I’ll drink less.”
“I mean it, Sawyer. Or Uncle Carl will be coming to stay with you whenever I’m out of town.”
I grimace. My mom’s older brother lives in the same town Mom grew up in. He works remotely in some software job, and he has three cats that he brings every time he visits, which has thankfully not been frequently.
“And have some water before bed. I need your help taking down the Christmas lights tomorrow, and I don’t want to hear you complaining about your hangover all day.”
“I will.”
I swerve into the bathroom, down about a gallon of water straight from the tap, strip off my clothes, and then face-plant on my bed in my boxers, sinking into a sweet oblivion where nothing that happened earlier exists.
15
March
The guy groans, “God, you’re so hot.”
I don’t return the compliment. He’s cute, but I doubt I could pick him out of a lineup. He’s a sophomore in college, visiting friends at Columbia this weekend. I stopped paying attention after that, so I can’t recall where he goes to school or where he’s from originally. He is taller than me in heels, wears a Rolex, and hasn’t mentioned a stock portfolio or fraternity once. We wound up on the dance floor after he bought me a drink. I was the one who suggested coming in here, and he looked like he’d won the lottery, which was flattering.
He didn’t drawl that this wouldn’t be what I was used to. He opened the door for me on the way in here. He’s been respectful and very obviously interested, and there must be something seriously wrong with me—because I sort of hate it. I can’t even remember his name, and I think he mentioned it multiple times.
I guide his hand to my thigh, and he gets the hint, slipping under the hem and then starting to finger me. It’s not an easy glide. We both realize the truth—I’m not turned on.
He chuckles awkwardly. “Guess I have more work to do.”
His other hand migrates to my left boob, like that’s a magical button that will immediately get me wet.
“Kiss me,” I suggest, and he complies, but it doesn’t help.
Rather than getting lost in sensation, I’m too aware of everything. The rasp of my dress rubbing skin as he grinds against me. The pinch in my pinkie toes as my feet protest standing in my heels after an hour of dancing. The distant thump of the bass, muffled through the wall. It sounds like a giant heartbeat. Like my heartbeat, steady and slow and … bored.
I’m bored, kissing him. There are no tingles. No butterflies. And definitely no orgasm, even though he’s rubbing between my thighs again.
He’s hard, his erection pressed against my hip, and that’s disappointing too. I’m jealous of his obvious arousal. I wish I were experiencing it. But I’m not. I’m really not. It’s getting worse actually, like there’s a set amount of lust allotted between us and his enthusiasm is shorting my share.
“Stop,” I say, but it’s muffled against his eager mouth.
A heavy dose of panic and adrenaline streams through my veins, chilling my blood. I fight to stay present, stay here, forcing my hands between our bodies and shoving his chest hard.
“Stop!” This time, my airway is clear. My shout echoes off the dark green tiles covering the walls. I hate the loud, scared sound. “I—too many martinis. I’m going to throw up.”
I mime gagging, and the guy takes another step away, so rapidly that he nearly trips.
I almost laugh.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll let you deal with that,” he says quickly.
“And then you’ll be back, right?” I flutter my eyelashes, glancing at the bulge of his crotch. It’s not that impressive, but maybe he’s not fully hard yet. At worst, it’ll hurt less.
Something I hate more than my weak yell? Sawyer Bennett’s huge, beautiful dick. I’d rather drink cheap vodka,thenupgrade to premium champagne. I don’t want to compare other guys to him. Yet it’s all I’ve done since we met last summer.
I thought the prospect of fucking me post-vomit would be the final nail in this failed attempt at a hookup.
Instead, the guy nods, shoving his phone in my direction eagerly. “Text me.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, groaning.
“Er, just find me out there. I’ll be by the bar.” He backs away slowly. Faster as I beeline toward the toilet.
