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“I don’t want to.”
“That bad?”
“Depends on how you feel about breaking and entering, not to mention burglary. I also lied to your accuser about the money transfer, but I don’t feel bad about that. Then there’s your ring . . .”
He set the bottle on the table. “Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself?”
“The end justifies the means? I’d like to believe that, but I can’t.”
“You’re a high achiever, Pipe. It’s the way you’re made.” The way Duke Dove had made her.
She gave him a bright, phony smile. “No more depressing talk. Tell me about jail. Did anybody try to make you his bitch?”
“I was held in a conference room filled with cops who wanted a replay of last year’s Super Bowl. So that would be a no.”
“Disappointing.”
He shoved an olive in her mouth.
The music picked up tempo, and they went back to the dance floor. Before long, she’d kicked off her heels, and he got rid of his suit coat. As the tunes grew more erotic, so did their dancing. Pharrell to Rihanna; Bowie to Beyoncé. Piper on her toes. Pressing that sweet butt hard against him. Rotating, then spinning around to face him, her face flushed, her lids heavy. Rotating again. Butt pressing . . . If she didn’t stop, he’d have a repeat performance of their first time, so he grabbed her by the arms and pressed her against the wall.
He kissed her. Open mouth. Kissed her and kissed her and kissed her again—mouth, neck, back to her mouth. Long, deep explorations. The two of them making out as if this were as far as they could go. Devouring each other. Clothes sticking to their skin. One song after another.
Marvin Gaye . . . “Let’s get it on . . .”
Missy Elliott . . . “Let me work it . . .”
And still they kissed. A make-out session for the ages.
Do it all night . . . All night . . .
The skirt of her dress was in his fists. Shoved to her waist. His belt opening under her palms.
How does it feel . . . It feels . . .
Underpants. Zipper. Wool and nylon scattering on the dance floor.
Up against the wall. In the hall . . . Hot against the wall.
Freefall . . .
Her legs around his hips. Butt in his hands. Wet beneath his fingers. Inside her.
Work it. Work it, work it.
Inside.
Like that. And that.
And that . . .
***
Her knit dress had survived the thrilling abuse, but her underpants hadn’t, and since it felt weird to wear a bra without underpants, she abandoned lingerie altogether and pulled her dress back on over her bare skin. She touched her lips. They felt puffy. She’d be sore tomorrow, and not only her lips.
Her teeth started to chatter, and her legs weren’t working right. She sank down on the ladies’ room couch.
The worst thing in the world had happened to her.
