Except for the fact that my neighbor-turned-roommate just emptied himself inside me, so deep and full that I know he did it so that I’d be sitting here, across from another man, still feeling him drip out of me and thinking of him. So that every shift of my thighs, every slow leak, would keep him at the forefront of my mind. So that my date would be ruined.
I need to change the subject before I combust.
“So, tell me what you like most about living in Brookhaven,” I ask, tilting my head, letting my smile pull a little wider and trying desperately not to think about Gabriel’s text message that’s still waiting for a response. “I’m still new in town and trying to find my way around.”
Chris leans forward, his interest shifting with ease. “I don’t live in Brookhaven. I’m based out of New York City. I work mostly on the roads that connect the city to here, so I’m around a lot. I usually crash with my aunt when I’m in town.”
“Ah, that makes sense. Is that where you’re staying tonight?”
He nods, setting his drink down with a casual confidence. “Yeah, but don’t worry. She’s out tonight and not home so we won’t be disturbed.”
I blink. Whoa. That’s a bit forward.
And maybe I don’t have the right to judge because I was even worse during my disaster first date with Gabriel, but still, there’s an art to these things, right? There’s some playful flirting, some teasing that leaves the question open on whether we’ll actually sleep together after dinner.
Before I can decide how to respond to that, my phone—face-down on the table, not turned off like I said it would be—buzzes again.
“I’m so sorry, I forgot to silence it.”
I reach for it, heart already hammering, dread and shameful excitement curling tight in my gut because I know who it is. And I hate that more than anything I want to know what he’s saying now.
I flip the phone over, thumb hovering, pulse skittering like static electricity just under my skin. Then I read the message.
Gabriel: How does it feel to have me dripping out of you while you’re sitting across from another guy? My seed oozing from your cunt.
Gabriel: Does each drop remind you of me?
I inhale sharply, but the sip of water I’d just taken goes down the wrong way, and suddenly I’m choking. And it’s not a delicate cough—oh no, my body betrays me. My pelvic floor squeezes with the motion and shakes and the force alone sends a thick, slick gush spilling out of me in one mortifying rush.
Oh. My. God.
My panties are no longer just ruined, they’re decimated. They’re liquid. There’s no coming back from this. A spare hair dryer in the bathroom couldn’t save them now.
Heat rushes up my neck, my thighs, sticky, my panties, ruined. Thank fuck for the black dress because there’s no way there’s not a dark, damp spot on the back of it now.
Chris is out of his chair in an instant. “Are you okay? Are you choking?”
No. I’m nowhere near okay. I haveblue-clitfrom being brought to the brink of a powerful orgasm by the most handsome, infuriating, blue-collar man I’ve ever laid eyes on and then having it yanked away by my new roommate before this date. And I’malso oozingsemenall over my dress and the bar chair.
I nod, swallowing hard, voice barely functioning as my fingers fumble for another sip of water. “Yeah—just—can you give me a second? I need to run to the restroom.”
Like a savior, our server reappears at our table, setting down our meals.
“Get started without me,” I tell him, grabbing my purse and phone before he can protest. “Please don’t wait.”
He nods, already digging into his plate as I make my escape with my purse slung awkwardly over my backside hoping it’s concealing whatever wetness is visible.
The second I push through the restroom door, I beeline for a stall, locking myself in like I can somehow escape the literal mess Gabriel has left inside me. In some cruel twist of irony someone carved into the wooden door a heart with the letters G+A in the center.
I glare at it.
No.
I yank my panties down, gasping when I see just how soaked they are. The fabric clings to me, damp and humiliating, like I stepped out of the shower fully clothed. I quickly grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe between my legs, my thighs, my fuckingsoul—but it’s pointless. Nothing but a good wash and dryer will get these to be wearable again.
I have three options:
One. I toss the panties, go commando, and pray I don’t gush again like a water balloon.
