“What do you like?” Chris murmurs, stroking me.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
“Down the hall.”
“Let’s go there.”
I’m normally pretty indifferent about where in the apartment we do this. Against the front door, on the couch, the floor, the bed—it doesn’t matter. I’m not sticking around long enough to care. But at the rate we’re moving, this will take half the night. Maybe a change of scenery will remind Chris what we came here to do.
“What’s wrong with right here?” He steps into me before I can respond. His knees bump my thighs, forcing me back until I feel the cool chill of the windows against my shoulder blades. I shudder, and he laughs and kisses my neck, sucking harder than I expect, making me jump.
“Good or bad?” he asks.
“Good.” I exhale shakily and turn so my hair falls over my face, hiding me.
He lets go long enough to urge me to turn around so I’m facing the window. The darkness outside has made the glass a mirror, and in it I can see the shadow of his forearm where it covers my breasts. Then I watch the other hand. He splays his fingers wide, coasting down my stomach with painful slowness. I feel every millimeter, every bump, every ridge, every callus. Eventually the tips of his fingers disappear beneath the top edge of my panties, gliding back and forth until I squirm.
I bite my tongue. I want to rail at him. I want to stomp off. I want to push his hand down and his fingers in and come all over him.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers, nipping my earlobe.
I hadn’t even realized they were closed. “I was falling asleep,” I lie.
He laughs. His teeth glow white in the glass. They match my pale skin, surrounded by his tan, his muscle, his everything. His fingers inch lower, brushing over the damp curls that wait. “Should I stop?”
My breath vanishes. I don’t know if it’s to prevent me from passing out or begging. “No.”
With his hand hidden beneath the black fabric of my panties, I can’t see his finger move, but I feel it insinuate itself between slippery folds, seeking and finding entrance. I find my breath just in time to lose it again and slump against him. He only smiles and tightens the arm around my chest, anchoring me.
He’s not the first man to do this. But he’s the first in a very long time to treat it like an expedition, a curiosity, a sampling of what’s possible. The other men had a clear goal in mind; if he weren’t turning me on the way he is, I would doubt Chris knows what he’s doing.
But he does.
“Push your panties down,” Chris whispers. I feel the thud of his heartbeat on my back. Normally, I wouldn’t like the imbalance of power, but right now I don’t care.
I hook my thumbs under the cotton and shove my panties down as far as I can get them, revealing his hand, the material stretched between my thighs. I keep my face turned, trying to see through my hair until the arm on my chest releases me and comes up to grip my chin, tugging me so I’m facing the glass again.
There was a time I loved attention. I wanted my picture on every cover, every website. I didn’t care what they said, as long as they said something. Now I don’t want to be seen. I want to be forgotten, ignored, uncared for. And for a long time, I’ve gotten my wish.
A feeling comes over me, one that has nothing to do with sex. One I try and fail to fight. I do my best to keep my eyes on his hand but they rise of their own accord, locking on his in the glass. He’s watching. He’s everywhere.
I shatter. I cry out and clutch at him, and he catches me when my knees give way. Everything inside me is lurching and convulsing in endless, artless waves of pleasure.
I realize I’m gasping like I’ve just been washed ashore after a month lost at sea, and I try to compose myself even though I’m slumped over his arm like a rag doll, rubbing my hands over my heated cheeks, surprised to find them damp. Fuck. I try to be inconspicuous as I wipe my face, and Chris is polite enough to give me some room, removing his hand, making sure I don’t collapse when he lets go completely.
I hear him swallow and from the corner of my eye I see him calmly sipping his beer. He lifts a brow and tilts his head toward the hall that leads to the bedroom. “That was one.”
I DON’T KNOW WHERE I am.
I try to focus, but it’s impossible to see. I’m surrounded by blackness. I’m naked and warm and—
Chris snores softly, jolting me out of my confused stupor.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I peer around for an alarm clock, finding one on the far side of the bed. It’s 3:02 a.m. I’m furious with myself but refuse to move a muscle until I calm down. Until my eyes adjust to the darkness in the room, allowing me to get oriented. It’s a typical guy’s bedroom, a king-size bed with a cheap comforter, a few pillows, and a headboard that did serious, cliché damage to the wall tonight. Chris sleeps on his stomach, arms folded up near his head, and faces me, mouth parted slightly, soft snores whistling out. Deceptively innocent.
I make out a couple of nightstands, a dresser, and the outline of a window with a heavy blackout curtain because Chris has to go to bed early on school nights so he can make the long trip to the farm in the morning. He told me that, even though I didn’t want to know.
He lied about the six orgasms, though three’s not a number I’ll complain about. And, despite my best efforts not to beg him to hurry the hell up, I’d heard myself pleading on a couple of embarrassing occasions. He’s not one of those guys who’s desperate to speed through his sexual repertoire, tossing you around like a contortionist, showing you what he’s learned from his favorite porn sites. No, Chris likes to take his time. Draw it out. Build it up. Make it ache.
My heart beats faster, and I tell myself to get a grip. Don’t fall asleep is a very important rule. It means the guard stays up, it means no pictures on cell phones, no one hunting through my bag.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
My bag.
When I’m on a date, the bag has the necessities. Cash. Lip gloss. House key. Condoms. No ID.
But when I left the house today, I wasn’t expecting a “date.” I have my real bag. With my wallet. My keys. My driver’s license and credit cards. My name.
I order myself to calm down. I’m being paranoid. I don’t think he hunted through my bag, but if he did, money’s the obvious motivator. And even if he did see my name, there’s no guarantee he’d recognize it. Though he’d probably wonder why it didn’t match the one I’d given him.
He snorts in his sleep and reaches down to scratch his ass.
No. He’s not a snoop.
He’s a guy.
I inch out of bed and ease away. We’d abandoned our clothes in the living room, and I find everything and dress quickly in the kitchen light. My stomach growls, and I fill a glass with water from the tap and down it, then snag a handful of chips from the bag on the counter before turning for the front door.
Chris leans against it, wearing a pair of jeans, arms folded across his chest. I let out a tiny shriek, chips shooting into the air.
He rubs one eye, trying to wake up.
I’d left my bag by the door when we came in, and now he follows my alarmed gaze. He bends carefully to hook a finger under the strap, bringing it with him as he straightens.