Page 57 of Shade
No. Knowing me, I’d burst through it and scream, “Choose me!” and then rip her hair out.
I take a deep breath to keep from hyperventilating. I’m not usually this nervous when it comes to sex but then again, how many times have I slept with someone famous?
Tom’s about as close to famous as I’ve come.
Eventually, after an hour of waiting in his room and brushing my teeth with his toothbrush, I take my clothes off and fold them, setting them on the chair near the window. Now I’m buck-ass naked in his room.
You’re still focused on me using his toothbrush, aren’t you? I’m not. I’m just hoping it was actually his and not the last guest who stayed here. I saw that guy. I do not want to use his.
The thought makes me a tad nauseous, so I focus on what to do next. Like how to present myself for Shade.
Where do I stand? Or do I lie on the bed?
Should I bend over the edge of the bed or the couch in the living room and wait for him? Should I sprawl out?
No. . . bending over would make me seem like I’m trying too hard. Don’t want to appear too easy. And sprawling out spread eagle is never an attractive position. It just looks like you’re preparing for a Pap smear.
But then again, naked in his room kinda screams easy, doesn’t it?
Don’t answer that.
As I’m standing there in the suite, contemplating how to present myself to him, I notice a reflection in the window.
You wanna take a guess as to who’s standing behind me?
His name rhymes with laid.
Well shit. Why didn’t you warn me? How long has he been standing there?
Wait. . . did I say that out loud?
By the look of amusement on his face, Idid. How fucking long has he been standing there? He’s a quiet motherfucker. Let’s hope he’s not quiet in bed.
I don’t know where my confidence suddenly comes from, but it emerges, and I sit on the edge of the bed, winking at him.
He doesn’t ask me what I’m doing in here. He knows. Girl in his room, naked, yeah, he’s encountered this before. I don’t want to imagine how many have done this before me.
I’m not sure why, but I feel the need to say something to him. “Um, so, yeah. . . .”Goddamn you, brain. Work!“Probably not the first time you’ve had a girl naked in your bed.”
That’s what you chose to say? Superstar in front of you and you point out the obvious? Nice one.
He says nothing, his eyes distant, unseeing, blinking one, twice. . . .
The air stills, and so does my heart. Am I expecting him to say anything? I’m not entirely sure.
Shirtless, he drops what looks to be his phone and sunglasses on a table, his chest expands with a heavy breath, and then he runs a hand through his hair and kicks off his shoes, his eyes making an unapologetic sweep of my body, and I think he likes what he sees.
I certainly enjoy seeing him without a shirt on this close. . .damn. My heart implodes with a thousand tiny, yet ridiculously controlling emotions. I’m in absolute awe of the intricate designs in his ink from the photorealistic portraits of influential icons to swirling geometric patterns and the memento mori wearing shades across his back. He’s perfect in every way.
Stepping further into the room, his jaw clenches, his mind elsewhere. He rubs his hand along his stubbly jaw, focusing his weary gaze on the window overlooking the city.
I pull my eyes from his body and return to his face, seeing the set of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes. Holy crap. He’s right in front of me!
Lick him.
No. Don’t. That’d be creepy.
Cling to him like a spider monkey?
