Page 54 of Fake Shot
The only way I can think to make him understand is to give him all the details about Vegas—to tell him why I went back downstairs after he brought me to my room, and to tell him what happened after I woke up in the morning. But I’d have to share things I’ve never told anyone but Audrey.
How would I tell him everything without him feeling absurdly guilty and without me looking like a complete moron? There is no way. Plus, I’m not sure I’m ready to be that vulnerable with Colt.
So we drive in silence while I rehash the past, all while still feeling the way he touched me over and over again tonight, and I arrive home even more confused and sexually frustrated than I was when I left that hotel ballroom with him twenty minutes ago.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, the minute we walk through the door.
“Already?” he asks, glancing at the fancy watch on his wrist.
“It’s after eleven.”
“On a Saturday night,” he says.
“Yeah, but I was up late last night because of the game, and I need to be up early tomorrow morning.”
“What for?” he asks. Everyone knows I’m not a morning person, but it doesn’t seem to matter. After years in construction, my body is wired to wake up before the sun, even on the weekends.
I press my lips together, realizing that I’m going to have to take my weekly video call in my closet, where he won’t be able to overhear it, instead of at the dining room table where I normally chat with Jeannine. “I have my weekly therapy session on Sunday mornings.”
The look he gives me is ... I don’t even know. Approving? Proud?
“Alright,” he says, a small smile gracing his lips. “Goodnight, then.”
As he turns and walks up the stairs, I watch him go, noting the way his dress shirt stretches across his back and his suit pants fit his ass. He lifts his arm, running his fingers under his collar across the back of his neck when he gets to the top of the stairs, then I hear his footsteps as he walks along the second-floor landing on the way to the stairs up to his apartment.
It’s then that I realize I’m still wearing his jacket. I’m about to call out for him to wait so I can run the jacket up to him before he gets up to the third floor, but I stop myself. It’s better if I don’t, because meeting him in the hallway right outside my bedroom door has “bad decisions” written all over it. I’m going to have enough of those to unpack when I talk to Jeanine tomorrow morning. I don’t need to addlosing my virginity to a man who told me he doesn’t want to want me and said he isn’t any good for meto the list.
Instead, I hang his suit coat over the back of one of the kitchen chairs so he’ll see it there tomorrow, turn out the lights on the first floor, and head up to my bedroom. And once I’m in my closet, I do what I do each night before bed: I take a moment to assess myself in the mirror.
You’re strong.
You’re sober.
You’re safe.
It’s the reassurance that I gave myself after I returned home from Vegas, and have given myself every night since. Tonight, I add another:You’re making good choices.
Keeping my distance from Colt, except when necessary for keeping up appearances, is the right choice.
I reach behind me and tug at the small hidden zipper that starts at my lower back and unzips several inches down to my tailbone, then loop my thumbs under the thin shiny straps of the gold dress, letting them slide off my shoulders. The material brushes my hardened nipples as I let the dress drop to my hips, then I carefully step out of it, grab the hanger, and return the dress to my closet.
Then, in nothing but the thin lace thong I wore under the dress, I pad across the carpet to the top drawer of the island in the middle of my closet. And there, stored neatly in their boxes, is my entire collection of sex toys. I know exactly what I need tonight—I need a mind-blowing orgasm that will knock these thoughts of Colt right out of my head.
Taking my vibrator out of its box, I start to head back to my bed when I realize that the bedroom door is definitely not soundproof.Colt’s upstairs,I assure myself,it’s fine. This is one of the reasons I was so adamant that he stays in his space ... I don’t want him overhearing me getting myself off.
I pull my covers back and slip into bed, bringing a pillow down and adding it under my hips to tilt them back for what I know will be the best angle. Tonight, I need it deep. Rough even. I have another vibrator that’s thicker and more powerful, which I’d normally use when I’m looking for that type of experience. But my clit is aching and needs stimulation, andmy nipples are pebbled and waiting for my touch, so this vibrator’s combination of the thrusting, plus the clitoral stimulation, will allow me to use my free hand on my breasts.
I give it a few minutes, but even with how revved up I am, how badly I need this orgasm, my body won’t relax enough to let me have it. My brain is too busy pushing the thoughts of Colt out of my head, because coming to images of us together defeats the whole purpose of getting myself off instead of asking him to do it for me.
Moving up onto my knees, I sink down so the vibrator is as deep as it can go, and my thoughts return to Colt, imagining what he’d look like if I was riding him like this. I’m so desperate to come that I stop fighting the pictures in my mind. Glancing into the mirror that runs across the dresser opposite my bed, I note how my full breasts bounce with the movement and imagine his mouth on them. I really want to be riding him instead of this damn vibrator.
I know how big he is because his damn erection has been pushed up against me numerous times this week. He’d fill me in ways this vibrator can’t, and it’s the images of us together, the imaginary feel of him inside me, of his tongue on me, our bodies slapping together, that finally tips me over the edge. The orgasm comes on so hard and so fast that I’m unprepared for it, and I’m crying out as I fall forward on one of my forearms and bury my face in the covers, groaning out my release while riding wave after wave of this orgasm.
When I finish, I turn off the vibrator, setting it aside as I roll onto my back and let out a deep sigh. And that’s when I hear the creaking of the stairs outside my bedroom door.
No.
I try to assure myself that Colt was just coming down the stairs, and that he didn’t hear anything. But as I lie there and listen, I hear him moving around upstairs. Which means he was coming up from the first floor and passing my room right as I orgasmed.
