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He still looks mad, and his silence and avoidance of my eyes speak volumes, but I’ll find a way to make it up to him later.
Once the bathroom door is shut, I strip without finesse and climb in, not even hesitating to shove my face directly into the hot water. It feels so good against my overstimulated skin, and the longer I stand in it, the more I can feel my shoulders sinking down from their place around my ears.
I know this is a stressful situation that no one could have seen coming—not even that fancy, freaky fortune-teller named Cleo I saw when I first moved to the city. But the way I’m handling it so far is manic, even for me, and I have to tone it down.
There’s one thing that usually brings me back into a steady state without fail, and as twisted as it is that it’s directly related to all the things that fire me up and freak me out, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.
Gently, I scoot my fingers down my belly to my pelvis, swirling at the soft, wet skin right above my clit.
You have issues, my mind tries to warn me. But I ignore it, the feel of my fingers against my ramped-up skin far more pleasurable than a mental health check-in.
My head falls back, and my shoulders complete their descent to normalcy, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m going to see this thing through to the end.
I need to come, and in all likelihood, I’m going to visualize Chase’s face while I do it.
“Bless me, Father,” I whisper to myself, “for I have sinned.”
I’m officially living with my ultimate inappropriate crush, and the only thing that can calm me down is flicking the bean to his face.
Note to self: Maybe call your therapist after this tour.
But there’s no going back now. I’m soaped and lathered and quietly moaning like the closeted whore that I am.
I’m officially “come-itted.”
Chase
The firewood clunks as I pile it up at the side of the fire ring and then dust off any debris with a few quick swipes of my hands. I’ve double-checked all the lines and the leveling jacks and the tires, just so we don’t wake up with a surprise in the morning, and everything is good to go.
It’s been ages since I’ve been camping in any capacity, but on a weirdly sentimental level, it feels good to be doing it again.
Opening the motor home door with a click of the black handle, I jog up the metal stairs and into the living room, pausing only to close it securely behind me, before settling into the dining booth and pulling out my phone to text my sister.
Me: We made it safely to our first stop.
Mo doesn’t normally act like such a mother figure, demanding that I communicate my every move, but then again, I’ve never driven across the country in an RV with her favorite author either. She’s in full fangirl mode, and I am the medium, connecting her to the other side.
Her reply is swift and annoying.
Mo: Good. I’ll expect your nightly report before I go to bed. Be sure to include anything interesting Brooke says or does, okay?
I don’t hesitate to tuck my phone directly back into my pocket as soon as I read it. She knows everything I’m willing to communicate right now.
Since I can hear the water of the shower running, I take my manuscript and notes out of my tan canvas bag and set them on the table in front of me. I grab a pen from the front pocket and lick my finger to pick through the pages.
Now, I’m aware that most editors in the twenty-first century would be using a computer and Microsoft Word to track their changes and make comments and the like—or hell, maybe something even more advanced than that—but not me. I like to feel the pulped trees and taste the tinge of lingering ink on my thumb when I go to flip the page.
Justin, my ex-best friend, liked to mock me for being old-school, but I never put much stock in that. Good thing too, because as it turns out, he’s not a very nice person.
A small bang echoes from the bathroom, and I swear, I hear a whisper of a low, slow moan come from the other side of the wall.
I lean in unintentionally, and then I hear it again, coming from where Brooke is currently in the shower.
Is that… Is she…?
I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure my heart is now outside my chest.
My ears are on high alert whether I want them to be or not, and a ringing consumes the inside of my skull. But when I hear something else—the sound of escalated breaths puffing through the wall, I swallow hard. Holy shit. She’s doing what I think she’s doing.
