I flop down face-first on the bed. Everything wobbles unnervingly.
“Is this a waterbed?”
“You need to take a shower. What is wrong with you?”
“The last time you were with me and I didn’t shower, it’s because you locked me in your—”
His large hand comes down to fully cover my mouth. He’s half on me.
“Dani, I’m not telling you again.” The deep voice drops an octave. “Don’t fuck with me.”
I lick his palm.
He hisses, jerking his hand away.
Graham’s not in the room when I get out of the shower. I’m mildly more sober. Enough to curse the fact that for some reason I let my family anywhere near my suitcase.
Instead of my usual flannel PJs, there’s little lace-lined shorts and a matching spaghetti-strap silky top. They’d look sweet and modest on a girl less curvy than me. On my body? I look like I’m cosplaying one of those anime sexy-baby cartoons. My boobs strain against the silky fabric. The spaghetti straps are definitely not enough support.
Dani:I hate my family.
I angle the phone up, taking photos to send to Piper.
In the screen I see the door open, and Graham steps in.
“Oh, I, uh, whoops.”
His face is dark. He’s wearing soft black sweatpants. And no shirt.
I drool a little bit. Then I realize there is basically nothing between my nipples and him except for a quickly failing silk shirt.
“I know you don’t wear that to bed. I thought I told you not to fuck with me.”
His palm is warm. I feel his fingers twist on my neck.
He’s about to kiss me, my inner male-starved, attention-seeking teen girl screams. Then I realize it’s the alcohol and all the food. My blood sugar’s spiked, and that comedown is going to be brutal.
“I, uh… Which side do you want?” I pull at the covers, miss, and almost topple over.
“Why are you wearing that?” He doesn’t want to drop it.
So he doesn’t find me sexy. Good to know. Good to know.
He goes to his suitcase and pulls out a T-shirt. “Put that on.”
I pull his shirt over my head and shimmy the silk spaghetti-strap top out from underneath it.
“Go to the bathroom to change.”
“Don’t need to—ta-da!”
I throw the silk shirt on my suitcase. It misses.
I feel his eyes on me as I scurry to the bed, pulling back the covers.
“I can also go downstairs and pretend to read. Like, oh, I’ve got jet lag. Or my dog has separation anxiety and we need to be together.”
He pulls back the covers on his side and slips into the bed. His body takes up the entire mattress.
