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‘Can’t what?’
‘Come.’
His brow creased as he took in my words before I turned and fled for the ladies’ room, locking myself in the stall and catching my breath.
Fuck. Why the hell had I told him that?
He’d know I was broken. If I couldn’t make myself come, what hope did I have with anyone else? I cursed. He would have seen Ruby with others. Would know that she… I… could come. What a mess. All I had to do was keep my head down for a few weeks. Instead, I was screwing up left, right, and centre.
ELEVEN
EWEN
Ruby, the real one, had hobbled down the street on her crutches, chatting about dinner with the man who I presumed was her lover. The faux Ruby was at work and would be for hours. I had enough time to find the answers I needed.
I’d scoped out the apartment building the previous evening after my brush with not-Ruby. A stairwell led right to a back door, which I was certain was theirs. Countless locks had given way under the steady knack of my picking tools, but their door was the first that sent my pulse fluttering in my throat.
Hell, I was excited. It had been a long time since that sort of illicit adrenaline had flooded me. Her secrets and lies were mine for the taking.
Requiring some force to open because of disuse, the door finally unlocked with a satisfying click. I slipped into the darkened hallway, turned right, and moved away from the main living area toward the room I knew belonged to not-Ruby—the one where the light had come on moments after she got home while her sister was being railed in the other window.
Darkness enveloped the room, and I used my phone torch to throw a beam of light over the neat space. The bed was made, and her dirty washing was tossed in a hamper in the corner. A tidy desk sat near the window, a stack of boxes to the side. Opening one curiously, I found dozens of photographs. A green bag beside the desk revealed a mid-price digital camera and the paraphernalia that accompanied it.
Hmm, so my little liar is a photographer?
I continued my perusal through her things, stopping to eye different belongings. Nothing of interest was under the bed, but one corner of the sheet was untucked, standing out amongst the neat sheets, and I lifted the mattress at the disturbed spot.
A diary.
With a grin, I sat at her desk and flicked it open.
Most pages were a mix of rambling about her sister, or her course at university, or daily niggles, but a page covered with heated scribbles stood out. My dirty girl had watched her sister being fucked, and imagined what it would have been like to be beneath the rutting male.
She didn’t know.
The little liar was a virgin.
I’d never particularly coveted virginity, but the thought of her being untouched and yet so receptive to my touch made me rock hard. A virgin in my sex club. Damn.
Flipping through the pages, I found an entry on the date I’d performed with her. She’d obsessed over the brief touch of her wet panties and how she’d come home and tried to make herself come to the faint marks I’d left on her skin, but even that hadn’t been enough to do it.
She was frustrated. Desperate. So why hadn’t she gone out and found someone to sleep with? It’s not like she wouldn’t have a queue as long as Hadrian’s wall. Plenty of guys—or girls—would gladly do whatever she asked. Hell, she could have asked any of the guys at the club if she wanted to lose her virginity. Yet she’d shied away from any of those performances.
Was she waiting for flowers and candles, soft words and sentiment? Or something else?
I slid the diary back in place. All I needed was a name. I rifled through the drawers on her desk until I grasped the edge of her passport. I pulled it out, holding my phone torch to it.
Cora Henderson. Twenty-nine.
Mine.
The thought whispered through my senses—dangerous, demented, and yet, utterly delicious.
Pushing the passport back into the drawer, I took a last look around her room. My eyes landed on a pair of cotton panties that hung on the edge of her washing hamper. I picked them up and shoved them in my pocket, wanting to steal a little piece of her to take home with me–the urge to keep part of her close was irresistible.
A voice came from the hallway, and I quickly shut my phone torch off, moving into her built-in closet. I tucked myself back into the hanging clothes with a curse, pulling the doors closed. They stayed open a tiny sliver, just enough for me to see Cora’s bed.
The room light flicked on as she came in, chatting on the phone.
