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He's hard and he's huge.
Save for the condom, he's completely and utterly naked.
A blush spreads across my cheeks. I stammer, attempting and failing to speak. I've never seen that before. Not in person. In movies, sure. Textbooks, of course.
But never in person.
I can't look away.
The guy, Miles, makes eye contact. His voice is even. Calm. "You mind?"
I take a step backwards. My foot sinks into the plush carpet. I only barely manage to hold my balance. "Excuse me. I thought this was the bathroom."
"Next door on the left."
I know I'm red. Beet red. "Thanks."
I pull the door closed so I'm alone in the hallway. Next door on the left.
I step into the bathroom, lock the door, and die of embarrassment.
* * *
It takes twenty minutes for my cheeks to return to a normal color. I slink back to the sprawling main room and do my best to blend in amongst the partygoers.
Every inch of the hardwood floor is packed with beautiful people talking, flirting, or making out.
It's like the up-and-coming models, actors, and musicians are attracted to each other. They have a certain glow that mere mortals lack. And here I thought this was a normal college-students-with-a-keg-and-cheap-vodka kind of shindig.
Kara's friend invited us. He's in a band. Are they really this popular? I can't remember their name, but then it's hard to think of anything but Miles naked on the bed, hard and ready for action.
The lines of his hips and torso are burned into my brain.
And his…
Dammit, I'm not going there.
I find the closest thing to an empty corner and try to clear my head. I fail. My mind keeps going back to that vivid mental image.
Miles. He was unfazed, like the sex meant nothing to him. Like the girl on his bed meant nothing to him.
The man is a player. He's not the kind of guy I need in my life. He doesn't deserve my thoughts.
This stops. Now.
I scan the room for some better way to stay occupied.
It's no use. He's here. Miles is still effortless and aloof. He's still unaffected.
The guy has already moved on from the blonde in the bedroom. He's flirting with a redhead in a designer dress and stilettos.
She's model gorgeous with perfect hair and makeup. I'm standing here in an H&M skirt and blouse, my brown hair its usual frizzy mess, my black eyeliner doing little to enhance my plain-Jane brown eyes. Liner, mascara, and under-eye concealer are the extent of my makeup knowledge. I think I'm the only woman here who isn't contoured. Hell, I know I'm the only one wearing canvas sneakers.
I don't belong here.
It doesn't make sense that Miles is looking at me instead of the pretty redhead.
But he is. His clear blue eyes are fixed on mine. They're gorgeous. I couldn't see them in the dark but out here, they're practically shining.
