And she doesn’t ask me, either.
5
MAGGIE
They’re probably in there eating my damn cookies and laughing over how pathetic I am. A blister still clings to the edge of my hand where I’d burnt myself baking the treats in some misguided attempt to – I don’t know – make him believe I wanted sugar? Make himlikeme?
Liking me isn’t necessary.
Roman and I have a job to do. Together. I just need him to tolerate me for a week. That’s it.
My bed accepts me ten minutes later, mouth minty fresh and pyjamas matching, for a change.
Enveloped in the pillowy soft bedding, I inhale the clean scent of the sheets. Having a fancy sleep always reminds me of home. The holy trifecta: clean pyjamas, clean sheets, and freshly shaven legs. When the staff took care of the washing, having everything freshly laundered every day hadn’t crossed my mind. Living on my own, it sure did. So a fancy sleep once a week had to do.
Shit.
I’d have to share a room with Roman at Dad’s.A bed. Despite myself, my pulse skips. It has been a very long time since I shared a bed with anyone, and even then, never for more than a night or two. My brand of weird puts guys off of anything more than a quick roll in the hay.
A noise behind my headboard has me holding my breath, focusing on what’s happening on the other side of the wall.
Giggles.
Murmurs.
Scuffs.
Closing my eyes, I picture the woman I’d seen through the peephole in Roman’s thick, veiny arms. His fingers sinking into her dark curls as he tips her face…
Involuntarily, my thighs squeeze together, applying a little pressure just where I crave it.
The woman is leggy and curvy, her short dress fitting her like a dream. A stab of jealousy hits. I’ve lived next to Roman for years, and it took stealing his key impressions for him to look me in the eye properly, yet he takes other women home and doesn’t even give them his real name.
What would this one be screaming through the wall? Chris? Raef? I wonder if it ever bothers him to have every name, but his own, moaned at him. That’s got to grate after a few years.
Whatever he needs to do to maintain the delicate palace of lies that he surrounds himself with.
The moaning next door increases in volume and ferocity, and I hate the way it makes me squirm against the duvet.
I screw my eyes shut, but the imaginings in my mind only increase in vividness. Strong fingers pressing open thighs. Fine stubble grazing tender skin. A wet tongue…
Oh God.
Turning over, I punch my pillow in annoyance, shaping it into a more solid lump. Hating the burning need inside me, I straddle it, matching my grinding to the knocking of his headboard on my wall. Each thud fills me with a hot jealousy.
Cries.
Squeals.
‘Fuck me’s.
‘He’s not even that attractive,’ I whimper, losing the battle against the sensations between my legs. ‘Just another lying fuckboy.’
Tell your vulva that.
The banging next door builds, intertwined with increasingly desperate moans. My own included.
‘Eli,’ comes the feminine voice next door, a ragged plea.
