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And then they double me over with a couple of gut punches to shut me the fuck up, drag me outside and shove me headfirst into a waiting van.
CHAPTER 8
Lexie
The sound of the door latching shut wakes me up when he leaves the room. I lay there for a hot minute before I have an idea.
He said he loves hot chocolate, and so do I. And all this sex has made something sweet and creamy sound really, really good.
Hot chocolate would be perfect. I’ll just run down to the bar before he comes back and surprise him.
Rolling out of bed, I find my whole body is deliciously sore. After the first round, he flipped us over and guided me on top of him. More education, more orgasms, but he wasn’t done.
There was reverse cowgirl he called it, then the flatiron and the wheelbarrow. I giggled with the ridiculous names and I’m not sure what he liked more. Making me come or making me laugh.
Still, I love the achy muscles, knowing that he used me so much that I can feel it in every muscle and tendon.
I move as fast as my soreness will allow, wrapping myself in one of the robes hanging on the bathroom hook and head out the door.
But no sooner do I open the door than I’m greeted with an uncomfortably familiar face. It’s my dad’s business associate, the very guy we avoided on the dance floor.
His name is Mr. Jenkins. He smells like Altoids and has never made me feel the least bit weird. Until now.
“Lexie? Lexie Sayers? It’s you, isn’t it?”
Oh Mylanta.
I backwards-scurry into our room, locking the door behind me. But Mr. Jenkins isn’t about to let me go that easily. After all, he’s seen me, which is a problem.
But I’ve seen him, too.
Which is an even bigger problem. Because poor old Mr. Jenkins has a lot to lose.
He definitely shouldn’t be here, as his increasingly panicked knocks tell me. I might be nineteen, but he’s married. Not only is he a business associate of my father’s, but I’ve been taking piano lessons from his wife since I was five.
Mr. Jenkins pounds on the door in a panic while I stand there, in a total-body cringe.
“Oh my god, Lexie, please. You can’t tell. You just, you can’t… Come out here. Let’s talk this over. Like adults!”
I can’t be found out. I just can’t.
As well, how can I ever take another piano lesson? And what if he tells my dad? Or my mom? Then what?
And yet, and yet...
I have such feelings for Daniel already. So many feelings. So many questions, so many hopes.
I love him.
No, I can’t. This is crazy. This is impossible.
Standing there, though, half naked and cringing, the fuzzy dreamy wonderfulness of the last hours vanishes, giving way to the sharp unpleasantness of real life.
Who did I think I was falling for, Prince Charming? After all, he bought me.
At an auction. What sort of man would do that, really?
Mr. Jenkins jiggles the doorknob and lets out a strangled sob. It gives me my answer.
Who would do this?
A man with something big to hide. And not the sort of man I should have anything to do with at all.
I press my palms to my face, pushing my fingertips hard against the ridge of my eyebrows. God, what an idiot I’ve been. So stupid. So naïve. Such a fool. Such a dumb little girl to think that a man like that and a girl like me could ever, ever…
No way.
Earlier tonight, I was fueled by curiosity and desire.
Okay. Lust.
Crazy, stupid, blinding lust.
And, my stubborn need to win a bet.
But now, I’m nothing but regret and embarrassment. These feelings in my heart, they can’t be real. They just can’t.
And so I do the only thing I can think to do.
I gather up all my things, fling open the window, and run.
Back at my parents’ house, I creep up the steps like a cat burglar—burglar being the operative word, I realize, because on top of all my other cringe-worthy accomplishments tonight, I’ve stolen the robe I’m wearing.
Wonderful.
My cover-story for the night is that I was at a sleepover at Gina’s, and I keep reminding myself of that as I tip-toe down the hallway to my room, careful to avoid a creaky floorboard by the bathroom.
Safely inside my bedroom, I quickly peel off my robe and stash both dresses, the tangled-up garter, and the tattered stockings deep inside the messy abyss that is the floor of my closet. But I don’t let go of the panties.
I run my finger along the delicate embroidery on the lace, my heart a knot of conflicted feelings that I have no idea how to untangle.
I feel terrible for leaving like that, without a word. It makes me almost sick to think of him going back to that empty room. But then comes the doubt monster, snarky and rude.
