He nods. “You really, really do.”
“All you have to do is what we’re doing, Wes. Just being…” I swallow hard. “Just being us. There being anusto be, if that makes any sense. That’s what made me smile. Just watching you, being like this, the casual intimacy of just being people together.” I whisper it. “Feeling like…like a couple. It’s something I never thought I’d feel in my life, and having it with you is…it means more to me than I could probably ever put into words, Westley.”
He blinks hard. “Dammit, woman, you’re making me emotional.” He says this with a self-conscious laugh.
“That’s okay,” I say. “More than okay. It’s good. I like it.”
“Is there anything youdon’tlike?”
I laugh. “Bad days. Feeling like there’s not enough time.” A pause, and another chuckle. “Broccoli.”
He laughs. “Noted.” He touches his lips to mine in a brief gesture of affection. “Let’s get dressed and get out of here.”
“Sounds good. I could eat a horse, at this point.” Right on cue, my stomach growls noisily.
I select an outfit, a favorite pair of short, loose, soft athletic shorts which I have in several colors, and a plain V-neck T-shirt. I put on a pair of underwear—nothing fancy, since I don’t own anything like fancy underwear—and the shorts, then pause.
“Wes?” I ask. “Weird question for you.”
He’s halfway dressed himself. “Shoot.”
“Do you…um, particularly care whether I wear a bra? Because I don’t normally. With these little things,” I cup my barely there breasts, “there’s not much point other than hiding my stupid poky nipples, which I don’t really care if people see. It drives my mom nuts—shehateswhen I don’t wear a bra. She’s always trying to make me wear one, and says it’s immodest when I don’t, especially in public. But I just hate them.”
He laughs. “Couple answers, here. One, you’re not a child, you’re nineteen and an adult and therefore have the right to decide what you wear, especially now that you’re not at home with your parents. When you’re living with them, I suppose an argument could be made about showing respect for their rules when living with them, but that’s neither here nor there, since we’re hundreds of miles away from them. Two, I’m personally of the opinion, in general, that a woman can dress however she wants. Granted, if she chooses to show a certain amount of skin, she can’t expect men to not look, but the flip side of that is that men can’t act like that’s some kind of invitation—she’s just dressing to her comfort, for herself and no one else. Three, regarding you in this specific context? No, I don’t mind if you don’t wear a bra. If you want me to go further, I kind of like it when you don’t. But you do what you’re comfortable with. Wear one, don’t wear one, it’s totally up to you.”
I huff. “That was a lot of an answer.” With a sigh of relief, I toss the bra I’d gotten out of my suitcase back into it. “In that case, no bra it is.” I shrug into my shirt and glance down—sure enough, as always, my nips are prominent. But whatever. They’re just nipples. It’s not like I’m prancing around topless.
You’d think I would be more modest, considering the conservative, sheltered way I was raised, but the no bra thing began as a kind of teenaged rebellion, in one part. The one way I could show a little spirit, a little pushback. But the other side is more practical—I just have never seen the point. They’re uncomfortable and my boobs are small enough that there’s just not much to support, and why should I care if people see my nipples? Everyone has them. It’s just been this ongoing battle with Mom.Jolene Park, put on a bra! No one needs to see those.Nipples, nipples, nipples. Who cares?
And now that I’m with Wes, it just feels…different. More sensual, where it was purely practical and for comfort before.
Maybe it’s an aftereffect of the orgasm, but everything feels more sensual, and all my senses feel more heightened.
I’m just hyperaware of my body and Wes, and his body, and the things we’re hiding under our clothes.
* * *
We pack up,check the room for belongings, check out, and have breakfast. The waitress recognizes Wes even with his “celebrity disguise,” but she’s cool about it and doesn’t make a scene. When we’re done, he tips more than double the total of the bill—his signature on the line is illegible. He signs the back of the other receipt as an autograph, with a little note saying thank you for letting him eat in peace.
We head out, then, and it’s great to be back on the road.
We’re a good half an hour into the drive when my phone dings—I’d let it die while I was sick, and it’s charging in the console cupholder.
The message is from Mom:You said you’d call, Jolene. Are you okay? Things with Wes are good? I miss you.
I glance at Wes. “I should call her.”
He nods. “Go for it. Normally I’d try to give you privacy, but there’s not much I can do about that while I’m driving. If you want, I can pull over and stand outside?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine.”
I call her, and she answers before it rings once. “Jolene! I miss you so much, baby girl! How are you?”
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m good. I’m great!”
She laughs. “Okay, good, or great? Which is it?”
“I didn’t call because I had a couple days of not feeling well. But I’m better now.”
