Page 17
Dim lights. Suffocating cedarwood and fig. Tangled breathing. That man's voice—rough, sexy—whispering filthy things in my ear as he lost control.
Fucking Christ. I slept with Marcelo Moretti.
"Oh God..." I buried my face in my hands and groaned.
Shame, panic, and drowning chaos seized my chest. I turned my head stiffly toward the other side of the bed.
The charcoal silk sheets were rumpled—but empty.
His side was cold. No warmth left at all.
I sat up fast, ignoring the soreness screaming through my body, and scanned the room. The master suite was huge—minimalist Italian design, understated luxury everywhere. But it was dead silent except for the faint hum of central air.
He wasn't here. The man who'd taken my virginity last night was gone.
Good. Great. Best possible outcome.
I had to leave. Now.
Because I had zero idea what I'd say if we ran into each other. "Hey, thanks for the charity sex"? Or "Sorry I got drunk and threw my virginity at a stranger"?
Hell no. I didn't want to know.
I scrambled off the bed, legs almost buckling beneath me. I found my sequined dress with the busted zipper under the bed. As for that red lace lingerie... forget it. No way was I putting that back on.
I yanked the dress over my head, grabbed my clutch, and bolted for the fingerprint-locked door—barefoot, shoes half on—like a thief fleeing a crime scene. Crossing the living room, I kept my eyes glued to the floor, terrified of seeing any evidence of what we'd done on that couch last night.
It wasn't until I collapsed into the back of a yellow Uber that I finally remembered how to breathe.
"New Jersey. Hoboken," I said, curling into the corner of the backseat. My voice still shook.
In the rearview mirror, the scruffy driver eyed me with deep suspicion. No wonder. A girl with tangled hair, smudged makeup, bare feet, clutch in one hand and heels in the other, wearing a barely-there club dress stumbling out of a Manhattan penthouse at this hour—I looked like a textbook drug-fueled one-night stand gone wrong.
This was a Walk of Shame for the history books.
I clenched my jaw and turned toward the window, pretending not to see the judgment in his eyes. I tried to check the time on my phone. Dead screen. Battery died.
When the cab finally pulled up outside my crappy apartment building, I dumped out my entire clutch—crumpled bills, coins, quarters—and barely scraped together enough to cover the ridiculous cross-state fare.
I dragged myself up three flights like a ghost and fumbled my key into the sticky lock. I collapsed face-first onto my secondhand couch.
Plugged my phone in. After a few agonizing minutes, the screen lit up—and immediately exploded with notifications.
Twenty-seven missed calls. Fifteen unread texts. All from Isabella.
—Ruby Caldwell! Where the hell are you?
—Why is your phone off? You're not at Chad's party!
—Damn it, text me back ASAP. I'm worried.
The latest one came ten minutes ago.
—Ruby, I swear if you don't call me back I'm calling the cops!!!
"Shit!" I hit redial.
She picked up before the first ring finished.
