All thanks to Cassandra Herring.
I wish I could say this was the first time, but fuck me, I certainly hope it’s the last.
twenty-three
Cassandra
Oh God.
This can’t be real.
I can’t have just thrown up on Harley Wingrove.
Again.
Before embarrassment can drown me, he strips down to just his boxer briefs and I’ve lost the will to speak.
Not a single word wants to come out of my mouth, no matter how hard I try.
His golden skin looks darker under the dim kitchen light, creases in his chest more defined. His green eyes are glimmering with mischief, no doubt watching my eyes bore into his bare, sculpted torso. He’s so close, I could touch him with the slightest movement from any part of me.
So close that I could taste him.
So close that I could… "Did you hear me?" Startled, my gaping mouth snaps shut, eyes blinking rapidly as he brings me back down to Earth and out of the mouth watering trance I’d entered.
"Huh? I-ohgod. I’m so sorry."
Leaping off the counter, I scoop his puke covered clothes off the ground and run to the sink to rinse and soak them, so they’re ready to be properly washed in the machine.
"It’s okay." His voice is calm as he stands, leaning against the counter, rubbing a hand over his freshly shaven jaw, watching as I frantically try to undo whatever damage I may have caused to his probably very expensive outfit.
And get rid of the smell of vomit. It feels like it’s surrounding me.
I’m still nauseous, the smell is like a trigger.
"I said, you have vomit in your hair, Herring."
That explains the smell.
How do I always get it in my hair?
Ripping my dress over my head, I stand in front of him in matching black lingerie, and it’s impossible to not notice how his body reacts to seeing mine. "I didn’t even pack pajamas," I mutter to myself quietly, irritated at my forgetfulness.
Using his hands to cover his growing erection, he repeats himself for a third and final time.
"I said you have it in yourhair, Herring. Not your dress." He barks out a laugh, my cheeks setting on fire.
Groaning, I run toward the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me, the sound of his continuous laughter echoing behind it. I quickly turn on the shower.
Tonight is a fucking disaster.
"Are you okay in there?" He knocks, his deep voice turned soft and genuine, no amusement in sight, calming me instantly.
"Fine. Thanks," is all I say as I glare at the mess of myself in the mirror. Streaks of my bare skin showing from where my tears had fallen down my cheeks, mascara blending in with the bags under my eyes.
He’s covered in vomit. He needs a shower just as much—if not more—than I do.
My body wants so badly for him to join me.
