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ChapterTwenty-Seven
Oh,no. No, no, no!
I flail both arms, the one with the dildo and the one without.
Nope.
I hit the ground with a loud slap, air whooshing out of my lungs.
Skunk.
There are stars in my eyes and a loud boom in my ears.
In a second, the stars stop spinning, but the booming sound is still there. It sounds strangely like a shout asking, “What happened?”
Great question, imaginary shout.
Did I break something?
I scan my ribs and the rest.
No, I think I’m okay.
Wait.
The shouting is louder now, and it’s Art’s voice.
He’s demanding to know if I’m okay.
I inhale some air into my lungs in order to answer, but it’s too late.
Crack!With a violent sound, the door flies off its hinges, and Art’s voice sounds much closer. “Fuck! Are you okay?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Strong arms turn me over, and a panicked Art examines every inch of me thoroughly, like he’s conducting my annual dermatological exam.
Did I hit the floor face first? My cheeks are burning almost painfully.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
I scramble to my feet, unsure of what to do first: hide the toys or cover my naked body with something.
Art grabs my hand, firmly. “Are you sure you’re okay? It sounded like you fell hard.”
Are my cheeks bleeding?
I check in the mirror.
Nope. Just very red.
I can’t believe that on top of everything, I sounded like a sack of potatoes when I fell. What else, universe? Am I about to throw up in front of him? Pee myself?
Frantically, I grab a towel and wrap it around myself. “Okay, since I’m fine, you should go.”
Only now do I realize he’s wearing nothing but black briefs—and boy, they look amazing on him.
Art’s jaw sets stubbornly. “I’m not leaving until I’m sure you’re okay.”
