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She paused.
Baby?
Her eyes jerked open; she stared up at the ceiling, feeling frozen.
“Did you wear a condom?”
What kind of stupid question was that? Of course he hadn’t. . .in either round. She’d been there the entire time. She knew perfectly well there’d been no pausing for prophylactic safely.
Grady went tense. He sat up and looked down at her with wide eyes.
“Shit,” she said and sat up as well. “I. . .I should clean this off. . .or something.”
She couldn’t see him clearly in the dim light, but she could tell he wasn’t moving.
“Not that it would make much difference,” she added as she pushed to her feet. “But washing’s better than nothing. . .don’t you think?”
He didn’t respond.
She felt stupid, explaining herself and asking his advice. But what the hell was she supposed to say? She’d never had unprotected sex before. She’d never completely forgotten about safety. She’d never coerced a man into deserting his vow of chastity and, damn it, she’d certainly never experienced two orgasms right in a row like that.
She was completely at loose ends over how to handle any of this.
Feeling stiff and suddenly sore, she moved toward the bathroom and hobbled inside, quietly shutting the door behind her. Once alone in the brightly lit chamber, she let out a breath and pressed a hand to her quaking stomach. She met her own gaze in the mirror. Large, dazed brown doe eyes stared back. She looked like a woman who’d just taken a long, hard tumble with a very potent lover. Her naked skin was red and chafed from his five-o’clock shadow while her hair, which had come free from its ponytail holder, was mussed in a ratted, mangled mess. Her lips were swollen and bright rose in color.
B.J. blinked and lifted a hand to touch her mouth. Holy Lord. She looked good and truly debauched. As she glanced back at the door, her stomach rolled again wi
th unease. This was foreign territory indeed. She was actually thinking like a woman as she wondered what was going on in Grady’s head out there.
She wondered what he thought of her now and how awkward it was going to be when she finally left the bathroom. She knew she’d been wrong. . .but he hadn’t stopped her. In fact, the second time had been entirely his doing. . .his sweet, slow, almost-loving doing.
B.J. grinned. The second time. Imagine that. They’d had sex two consecutive times in a row.
Thinking things couldn’t be as bad as she’d originally surmised, she hurried to the shower, turned on the water, and cleaned herself quickly. All the while, she almost expected Grady, the sexually repressed nymphomaniac who’d just gone twice in a row, to pop in and join her for some kinky, yet satisfying, shower play. But he didn’t enter the bathroom.
Once she’d rinsed herself clean, she hurried out of the tub and slung a towel around her body, wrapping it up under her armpits and tucking the end between her tender breasts. She hadn’t brought any clothes into the lavatory, so she went to the door and eased it open, wondering if he’d be dressed or not.
But when B.J. ducked her head into her hotel room, all traces of Grady Rawlings were gone. The only thing to let her know she hadn’t imagined everything was the soreness between her legs and the hot rash of beard burn on her neck, not to mention the pile of her damp clothes strewn across the floor.
Straightening, she stepped fully into the room and ignored the ball of disappointment that thumped into the base of her stomach. Of course, she was relieved too, she assured herself. If he was upset or remorseful, she didn’t particularly want to face him and look into his accusing eyes.
But the disappearing act kind of stung. It told her without a doubt their encounter had been a mistake.
B.J. nodded to herself, mentally repeating that it had indeed been a stupid, careless blunder as she slumped toward the bed. Not bothering to put on clothes, she dropped the towel and crawled under the covers.
Curling into a tight ball, she lay there. She shouldn’t have left him out here alone. Or better yet, she shouldn’t have pushed him into any of this tonight. She should’ve just shut up and let it all alone. Damn it, she shouldn’t have been so rude, and she certainly shouldn’t have kissed him.
But she had. She’d done it all.
He was probably in his room, feeling as guilty as hell. He hadn’t planned on ever being with another woman again. Something inside her told her he hadn’t. Not that it mattered. She’d destroyed his plans and felt like a piece of crap for it.
“What a complete mess,” she announced to the quiet room.
Then, unable to help it, she burst into tears.
“God, what’s wrong with me?” she muttered.
B.J. Gilmore, the tomboy of Tommy Creek, Texas, never cried. But, tonight, she did. She let the tears flow as she bawled herself to sleep.
