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“I’m in.”
The words flew out of my mouth before my brain had processed them, but as soon as they’d left, I knew they were the ones I’d been destined to say.
“See you in a week, Kiki,” the man replied, then hung up the phone.
I started at my phone for a moment and took a deep breath.
The die was cast.
I kicked my feet up on the dashboard and turned on the Jeep, letting cool air blast through my AC vents.
“Okay,” I said to myself, talking aloud in the way I sometimes do when I’m anxious. “You’re selling your virginity, Kiki. Cool, cool, totally normal, definitely not like a crazy wild thing that you just kind of signed up for on an impulse. This is gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine.”
Well, my maddened ramblings weren’t exactly a compelling argument. I flicked on the radio, shifting it to some smooth R & B. I needed to relax. Why hadn’t I gotten a drink at the club when Tate had offered? My every nerve was dancing on edge.
Too bad my tiny pot stash was at home. Tonight was certainly the day for reinforcements, and I wasn’t ready to step foot in that house just yet — not when there was every chance my dad was lying in wait, ready to work up some tears and beg for my forgiveness. If I was going to avoid losing my cool with him, I needed to blow off some steam.
What was relaxing? I’d never gotten into meditation, didn’t have time to learn a hobby like knitting. What self-care ritual would cover today’s fuckery?
Then my hand slipped down my thigh, drawn as if by some magnetic force.
Did I dare? In the middle of a parking lot, no less?
My fingers went to my crotch. Even the mere suggestion of sexual gratification dampened my tights.
Yes, I thought to myself. I do dare.
If I was the kind of girl who could sell her virginity to pay off debts, then I sure as hell was the kind of girl who masturbated in public. I looked around and the coast was clear.
In one swift motion, I rolled the tights past my hips and knees until they pooled just above the ankle strap of my heels, their crystals catching the overhead lights of the parking lot.
I wanted release, and goddammit, I would get it.
I moved a finger to my clit and began to stroke it. Immediately, my whole body moved in response — my back arched, my other hand dug into the worn fleece of the seat, my toes curled.
And my mind responded too — I began to think, not of my own accord, about Tate.
Stupid, entitled, arrogant, hot, wildly sexy Tate.
“Don’t think of him,” I muttered to myself through increasingly short breaths. “Forget about Tate.”
But my body had other ideas. Because the more I tried not to think about him, the more images of him in my head multiplied, some remembered, some imagined. Tate in the booth, leaning in close to me. Tate, holding me tight on the dance floor. More colorfully, there was Tate taking off his shirt and telling me he would fuck me like a queen. I blushed as I fantasized about Tate inside me, thrusting and groaning.
My clit teasing quickened, my fingers moving faster as the scenes of Tate rushed through my head, flooding my synapses. Oh, fuck, that felt good. I wondered what it would feel like if it were him touching me with his strong, powerful fingers. Would he know what I wanted, what secret ceremonies my body desired?
Yes, I thought. Yes he would.
Tate, Tate, Tate. The name chastised me, awakened me, confounded me. God, I wanted to fuck him.
I was touching myself with such speed that I seemed to levitate off my seat when I felt my orgasm coming.
My hand bore down, pressing into my sex and demanding pleasure.
That was it — I exploded.
“Tate!” I screamed, unable to stop myself.
Joy and contentment washed through me, offering a momentary respite from the realities of life, taking me out of the dingy Jeep and into another plane of existence.
A long moment passed as my muscles quivered and, finally spent, relaxed.
I dropped back down to the seat, a little sweaty and totally satisfied.
Why the fuck had I screamed Tate’s name at orgasm? That couldn’t be a good sign. I felt better after the orgasm, definitely more chill, but it left me with more questions. Why, even after he’d treated me so poorly, was I hooked on Tate?
It was time to call in reinforcements.
I typed a few commands into my phone, then chewed at a fingernail as I waited for her to pick up.
At long last:
“Sonia?”
“What’s up, girl? How’d the second shift go?’
“Oh, it was — there’s actually something a little more, um, interesting that I have to tell you.”
