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Her mother made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “I doubt he’ll want you now. I am repulsed, Livvy. This is so vulgar. So sleazy.”
Liv’s arms tightened across her chest. “Sorry you feel that way.”
“That man was poison from the start,” her mother fumed. “From the summer that you met him, that’s when you became so difficult and contrary. You had a complete personality change!”
Yes, she reflected, with detached clarity. That summer, she had discovered her spine. And just in time.
“But I never expected something like this. I would never have dreamed you’d go this far. Under our very roof. With your father and myself and Blair downstairs. Brainstorming ideas to keep you safe.” Amelia flung her head back and dashed tears away, careful not to smear her perfect makeup. “I cannot believe you are my daughter.”
The words rang, like an iron-plated door slamming.
“Neither can I,” Liv replied quietly.
Amelia’s hand flashed out again, but Liv blocked it, grabbing her mother’s wiry wrist. “Do not hit me again,” she said. “Or I will hit back.”
Amelia yanked her hand free. “You already have, Livvy,” she whispered, her voice thick and froggy with tears. “You already have.”
She swayed at the top of the stairs, caught herself on the newel post, clutched it for support. She descended, her back ramrod straight.
“Be ready to leave at six,” she announced. “We will do our duty to you as best we can, even when you spit in our faces.”
Liv drifted back down the corridor to her room. She hadn’t thought it possible for her life to be more wrecked than it had been, but there were always more weak spots, more hidden tender bits. Between them, her mother and Sean had found and exploited them all.
She flung off the robe. She caught sight of her naked body in the mirror, and paused, looking at it as if she’d never seen it before.
Maybe she never had. She usually saw her body through a veil of self-criticism. Those big boobs, all over the place. That belly, not flat at all. Those hips, too broad. That butt, ay yi yi, don’t even go there.
But Sean’s passionate appreciation had been utterly genuine. There was no faking it. She’d felt his sincerity in every cell of her body.
She looked at her body, still pulsing with residual excitement, still jittery with the memory of all that incredible pleasure, and she liked what she saw. She looked pretty. Voluptuous, not fat. A woman that a sexy fantasy guy would scale fences, evade burglar alarms, climb trees and break laws for a chance to sneak into her room and ravish her.
She was tempted to call him right now, just to explain the whole stupid engagement fiasco to him, but she didn’t dare.
Why should I care if you’re engaged or not, princess? What’s it to me? That was probably what he would say, and she couldn’t take it.
She shivered. Tonight, that would shrivel her to nothing.
She put her hand between her legs. Her tender, inner bits were sore, muscles aching from being spread so wide open. Not even when she lost her virginity back in college had she felt so overwhelmed.
No, not even close. Her body was still charged, shaking. All she had to do was think about him, clenching her thighs, and pleasure burst through her, like a torrent of foaming water. Rippling through her thighs, right down into her toes. She caught her breath, wobbling.
Her hand slid deeper. Amazing, touching herself with Sean’s electric presence behind her. His hot body arched over hers. His voice, muttering sexy words into her ear. And that huge penis wedged inside her, so deep, she could feel his heartbeat throbbing against her womb.
That set her off, and when she recovered, she was crouched on the ground. The very thought of the man brought her to her knees.
Her private fantasy world was all about Sean, but the scenarios had to be just so. Hot encounters in hotel rooms, where she reduced him to rubble with her sexual prowess—hey, it was a fantasy, right?
Then she’d take a shower, and pull her complex underwear back on with aplomb while he sprawled on the bed, licking his lips. She’d dress, briskly but sensuously buttoning, zipping, snapping herself into her clothes. A slick of red lipstick, a toss of her hair. She’d throw her purse over her shoulder. A bright, impenetrable smile, a fluttery wave of her fingers. “Have a nice day,” she would say, ever so sweetly. “Bye.”
In her fantasies, he begged her not to go. Demanded to know when he could see her again. She shrugged. Cruel Liv. “We’ll see how I feel,” she’d say, merciless. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you…if I want to.”
Andsnick, the door swung shut in the face of his pleading.
There was a lot of latitude for variation in that hotel room theme, but the key element, that crucial power dynamic, was always the same.
She swallowed over a quivering in her throat. If she had that affair with him, it would be her lying on the bed, destroyed, watching him pull on his clothes. Her, begging to know when she could see him again.
How many times could she survive that? She struggled to her feet, stared at herself. Her body was marked everywhere. Almost invisible but sensitive scrapes on her face and breasts from his beard stubble, lips puffy and red from his kisses. Faint marks on her hips from where he’d held her in place while he thrust into her. Her face grew pink. But not pink enough to cover the angry red splotch on her jaw from her mother’s slap.
