“No... I need my clothes.”
My request is met with a full minute of silence before I hear Whit say, “No problem, Lucy Jennifer. They in your bag?”
“Yeah, there should be two flannel nightshirts. Just grab one. Oh...and black leggings.” I’d never wear leggings to bed—I get hot when I sleep, but it seems prudent to keep as many layers as possible between my body and his. We haven’t come out and said that last night was a one-off, though it has to be. But with our track record, it’s best not to tempt fate.
I busy myself with putting lotion on my legs and slathering moisturizer on my face. I don’t feel like blow drying my hair, so I braid it quickly. What in the world is taking him so long? My suitcase was full, but how long does it take to grab a flannel and leggings?
“Whit, I need my pajamas,” I say, opening the bathroom door, only to see him standing at the edge of the bed, my suitcase open in front of him, and my vibrator in his hand.
Kill me now.
My cheeks flame red and I can’t get the words out fast enough. “Oh my God, Whit. Please put that back before I die of mortification in a hotel in Cleveland while wearing a too-small towel that doesn’t cover the goods.”
But the look on Whit’s face tells me he has no issue with the fit of my towel.
Still, I can hear my heart beating rapidly. It’s bad enough I was damn near wanton on his couch last night. But to see him holding my battery-operated boyfriend? I’ve officially hit rock bottom.
I reach for the vibrator but get Whit’s hand instead. He pulls me close.
“Why, Lucy?”
I pull back. “You’re asking me why I own a vibrator?”
“Hell, no.” He smiles and pulls me close again. I have to admit, I could get used to this. “I get why you own a vibrator, Lucy. A wicked part of me wants to know if this is the only one or if there’s a whole damn collection. God, I hope there is. But what I’m asking is why you’re embarrassed about it.”
I look at him like he’s crazy because, well… he is.
Tracing the line of my jaw, he tips my chin up so I have no choice but to look at his face. “Lucy, we don’t get embarrassed about what makes us feel good.”
For half a moment, I’m tempted to believe him, tempted to give in to this tender moment. But just in time I remember that I’m not a tender moments girl. I’m a get-shit-done girl, and that means no complications. And Caleb Whitman has complication written all over him.
Gathering my wits, I shake my head. “You’re right. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. There’s nothing wrong with needing a tool to get the job done, and that,” I point to the vibrator that he’s still holding, “is my tool of choice. I just don’t need your judgment.” And ok, maybe my tone is a little...haughty. And that last part was really unnecessary. Whit’s not judging me so much as he’s watching me. It’s like he sees right through me.
“Judgment? You think that's what's going through my mind right now as you stand there in a towel and I'm holding your ‘tool’? Jesus, Lucy, you couldn't be more wrong. Toys can be fun. Toys are teammates.”
It’s the cheeky grin on his too-handsome face that does it. That damn smirk pushes me over the edge. “You’re not getting it, Whit. I don’t just like the toy. I need it.”
He stares at me, so I spell it out for him.
“I don’t orgasm during sex. Or even with a partner. So if I want to climax, that’s how I do it.”
For possibly the first time in his life, Caleb Whitman is speechless.
“Wait. But…you orgasmed with me, didn’t you?”
I shake my head. “No. Not with anyone.”
“What the hell, Lucy?” his voice is gentle, if a little bewildered. “Never?”
I shake my head.
His voice is soft, as though he’s trying to make sense of this. “Not when we were sixteen and I was so far gone for you I couldn’t see straight?”
I shake my head again.
“Not this summer? Not last night? Why didn’t you say something?”
“What would I say?” I ask. “It’s not really a big deal.”
