“You’ve heard the phrase, the one percent, right?”
She shrugs, shakes her head. “No, not really.”
“Locked in a fuckin’ tower,” I mutter, not for the first time. “It’s a socio-economic thing. Ninety-nine percent of the population is just average income, right? In a range from poor as shit to moderately wealthy. That’s most people. Then there’s the super-wealthy. Millionaires, celebrities, whatever—they’re the one percent.”
She nods. “Ah, yes. Now that you explain it, I have heard of this concept.”
“Well, your dad? The way you grew up? That’s the one percent of the one percent.” I munch on a piece of bacon. “The tower of isolation you grew up in is a whole different topic.”
She devours the rest of the pancake with such zeal and delight that I can’t help but watch and simply enjoy the show.
* * *
Back at the hotel,I’ve brought up a change of clothes for me and her bra and underwear, rolled up together to keep her stuff hidden.
In our room, she sorts through her purchases, leaving out the brush and bottles, but it’s obvious her mind is elsewhere. Most likely, on the idea of showering with me on the other side of the door, and how she feels about this.
I hand her her bra and underwear. “Darlin’.”
She’s blushing at the idea of me handling her underwear—so fuckin’ pure, so innocent. Kills me. “What?”
“You’re overthinking shit.” I tilt her face so she’s looking at me. “Nothing happens that you’re not comfortable with. Just take a shower. You feel more comfortable getting dressed in there? Go for it. Feel a little bold, feel like teasing me, traipsin’ around in a towel? Fine by me. You do you, and forget about the rest, all right?”
She tilts her head to one side, searching my face. “How do you know that I am feeling this? Am I so obvious as all that?”
“I can see it. I dunno. Like you said, there’s a connection here between you and me, and it goes way beyond the fact that we’ve only known each other a couple days.”
“I should not be comfortable with you. I should not allow you to touch me, I should not touch you. I should not let you see me in only this bikini.” She shakes her head, trying to put it into words, and struggling to. “But I…I am not ashamed. I am not afraid. I am nervous, yes, because it is all so very new to me. I feel many things with you, which are new, and powerful, and I do not always know what to do with them.”
“Just go with what feels right, Anjalee.”
“Thank you for understanding me, Kane.”
I shake my head. “Not sure I do, all the time, but I’m tryin’.”
“You succeed more than you know.” She steps back from me, her expression unreadable.
She sets her undergarments aside and peels off her shirt. Undoes and steps out of her jeans. Folds the items and sets them on the bed, placing her bra and underwear with them. Making a conscious choice, and communicating it to me. She’s not gonna hide in the bathroom.
I almost wish she would.
Restraint has never been my strong suit, nor patience. I want her. I want her naked, and I want her screaming my name.
The way she came for me, last night? Fuck. Hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and she was in the bikini the whole damn time. Her pussy was so wet, so tight, so hot. She was so fuckin’ sensitive, responsive…I barely touched her and she came apart for me. Just my finger, one finger was all I needed and she fuckin’ lost it.
I watch her vanish into the bathroom. Water turns on.
I have to get away, or I’ll be in that bathroom with her.
I take the burner phone I snagged from the saddlebags, flip the latch to prevent the door from locking me out, and make a call out in the hallway.
It rings twice. “Yo, Kane.” Chance’s voice.
“How’s shit, man?”
“Same as always.” He laughs. “Well, no. Rev and Myka are living here more than half the time, so things are weird. She cooks for us, bro. Like, all of us. Shit’s fan-fuckin’-tastic, too.” Serious, then. “No bullshit, Kane—how areyou?”
He saw, back in Vegas, how much it hurt, seeing Myka, seeing how happy she makes Rev. I can’t lie to him.
