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Hands settle on my hips, tugging and guiding me back to the dance floor, and I let them. Out of all my hometown friends, Owen is the only one I’m genuinely glad to see. The only one I can tolerate for extended periods of time. The only one with whom absence did, in fact, make the heart grow slightly fonder.
Whether that has anything to do with him being the regular source of my orgasms for the better part of my senior year, who knows.
It’s always been a casual thing. Never exclusive. Certainly not something I foresaw continuing during college breaks but hey, it’s a comfortable arrangement. A safe one, and sometimes, a girl needs a little safe. Especially on nights like this; not only do I get a guaranteed happy ending but also a handy bodyguard to scare away silly men who can’t take a hint.
Owen is perfectly adequate. Not great, but good. He gets the job done. Scratches the itch. Which is more than I can say for every man in Sun Valley; I don’t know where the hell the guys who know what they’re doing are lurking in that town but I’ve yet to find one. Sex with Owen is quick and dirty, exactly how we both prefer our hookups. No false promises or fake sentiments or useless expectations.
Just sex.
And that night, when the nightclub suddenly becomes his bedroom, it’s just sex.
I barely even take a minute to catch my breath before rolling out of his bed, dark carpet soft beneath my bare feet as I hunt for my scattered clothing. It doesn’t take very long—not like I was wearing much.
Owen rises as I’m hooking my bra into place, and I watch him pad naked toward the bathroom, tossing the condom in a trash can. When he leans against the doorway, an amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You can stay, you know. If you want.“
Wrestling my dress up my body, I shoot him a look. He knows damn well I won’t. The spare room down the hall has my name on it, as it always does.
A sigh escapes my occasional fuck-buddy, a hand scratching his bare chest. “It’s not that deep, Lu. I’m not gonna fall in love with you if we sleep in the same bed.”
“Not a chance I’m willing to take, ” I tease, bending to scoop up my heels, laughter following me as I dart from the room with an air-kiss and a quip thrown over my shoulder, “Men have fallen for less.”
Honestly, I hate sleeping in the same bed as other people. I move around too much. I like my own space too much. I don’t like the claustrophobic feeling of an arm locking me in place like a sexed-up seatbelt.
Why share half a bed with a stranger—or, in this case, a friend—when I can have a whole one all to myself?
As I sneak down the hall, squinting against the darkness and wondering when the hell the others arrived at Owen’s place—the floor separating us does nothing to dull the sounds of their partying—when I barrel headfirst into someone. “Jesus, Eva.” My yelped groan of surprise morphs into a ragged laugh when I recognize the scowling brunette. “You scared the shit out of me.”
One half of the duo I spent most of my high school career attached to doesn’t respond. Judging by her tense shoulders and the snarl twisting her lips, her night clearly wasn't as successful as mine. Gaze flickering to the room I just snuck out of, Eva’s eyes roll to the back of head when she notices the slightly ajar door. “You’re still playing around with Owen?”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that wild look in her eyes was jealousy.
“If you mean fucking him,” she winces at my candor, and yeah, that’s definitely jealousy, “then yeah.”
Eva does not look impressed. “How many is that this week? You cycle through your little black book yet?”
God, it is too early for slut-shaming. Or too late? I don't know, but either way, I'm too tired for her attitude. “Didn't take you for a prude, Eva.”
“I'm just not a whore.”
A loud snort escapes me before I can stifle it. “Michael Harvey would beg to differ.”
Eva stiffens, snarling something vulgar beneath her breath at the mention of the ex she cheated on.
Repeatedly. Relentlessly. Unashamedly.
Like, the girl didn't even try to hide it.
In her defense, the guy is a misogynistic dick who, more than once, loudly declared he only dated Eva because she was a cheerleader—I distinctly remember something vomit-inducing about neither her looks nor her personality being the real catch, but her flexibility—and definitely deserved to be knocked down a few pegs.
But hey, a girl's gotta defend herself and I'll find my ammo wherever it arises.
Like an enraged dog, Eva grits her teeth, metaphorical hackles raised as she readies herself for a brawl. But as much as I adore some verbal sparring, entertaining an unworthy opponent whose peak creativity solely involves digs at who I let in my pants feels like a chore. I’d much rather bask in the lingering remnants of my sleepy, post-orgasm haze whilst sprawled on the cloud-like king-size mattress in the spare room. So, before the bitch can pounce, I yawn, loud and obnoxious.
“I’d love to discuss my sexual habits further,” I lie. “But being such a slut is hard work, y’know? I’m beat.”
Whatever response Eva conjures up, I don’t stick around to hear it.
3
