And when he looks back at me it doesn’t feel like he’s pretending either. He closes the gap between us and kisses me, right in the middle of his cousin’s wedding reception. It’s not a peck and it’s not the aggressive kiss from last weekend against my front door. It’s soft and just long enough to make my stomach drop and my pulse hike into overdrive. And a moment later it’s over and I’m confused. Hot, bothered and confused.
We dance and eat and have a few drinks until I’m yawning and resting my head on Boyd’s shoulder and he kisses the top of my head and says we can leave. I’m in a hazy cloud of contentment that lasts until we reach the hotel room—the hotel room that I’ve yet to see. It starts to fade as the alcohol wears off and Boyd inserts the key into the door. By the time the electronic lock blinks green my anxiety is starting to creep back in. The fake girlfriend part of the evening is over.
The room is stunning, of course. The curtains are open, showcasing the view of the mountain, and there’s a lit fireplace in the corner. These details distract me for approximately three seconds from the real issue with this room.
“Knock, knock, Boyd.”
“Who’s there, Chloe?” He looks amused, and hotter than should be legal as he undoes his tie.
“One bed! One bed is here, that’s who.” I don’t realize I’ve stomped my foot in emphasis until I catch Boyd’s gaze traveling down my leg. Then he laughs while slipping the cufflinks out of his shirt and rolling the sleeves back while my nerves skyrocket. What am I doing here? How did I allow this to happen? My brief experiences with sex never included an overnight—they included getting home by curfew or retreating back to my own dorm room when it was over. And while I don’t think Boyd wants to have sex with me, spending the night with him in the same bed is almost as nerve-racking.
“Sorry,” he says, glancing at me. “This was the only room they had left. I can sleep on the couch if that would make you more comfortable?”
I glance at the couch and feel stupid. “Of course not, it’s fine.”
He watches me for another moment attentively then nods. “You can change in the bathroom. Your suitcase is on a stand in the wardrobe,” he tells me, nodding at the furniture behind me.
I open the doors and dig into my suitcase, still gnawing on my lip when I feel him behind me. “Do you need help with the zipper?” he asks.
Yes. Yes, I do need help with the zipper. I nod and he unzips a very modest length before telling me I should able to get it from there. His voice is soft but husky and I don’t want to get it from there. I want him to yank the dress from my body and fuck me against the wall, but I don’t know how to ask for that. I barely know how to be alone with him.
I take refuge in the bathroom and close the double doors behind me. Apparently just one door isn’t enough for a fancy bathroom in a five-star hotel. I don’t see any obvious way to lock it though, so I settle for shutting the doors firmly so they won’t spring open before washing my makeup off and brushing my teeth. Then I yank on the lavender cotton sleep shorts and gray long-sleeved waffle-knit tee I brought to sleep in and remove the pins from my hair while running my fingers through it.
Okay then. I tap my fingers on my thigh and examine myself in the mirror. Just go back out there and go to bed. That’s all you have to do. No big deal. He might even be asleep already. I blow out a breath at my reflection and then scoop the dress off the floor and exit the bathroom. I stop at the wardrobe to slip the dress onto a hanger, then close the doors and turn towards the room.
“Holy shit, are you naked?” I blurt out. Boyd’s sitting in the bed with the covers up to his waist, his back against the headboard reading something on his tablet. His chest is bare, his perfect, six-pack abs assaulting my eyes from less than ten feet away. This isn’t fair, I mean come on.
“No,” he says slowly. I think he’s confused by me, but I’m not sure because his eyes are on my bare legs and he’s not saying anything. I want to tug at the hem of these sleep shorts, but I resist and instead mentally chastise myself for not packing sweatpants. He flips the cover back and points at his legs—covered by pajama pants.
I’m an idiot. My cheeks flush as I get into the other side of the bed and lie down on my side, facing the wall.
“Just to clarify, you have seen a penis, right?” Boyd asks, the hint of laughter in his voice.
“Oh, my God. Shut up!” I slap a hand over my eyes like that might suddenly transport me out of this mess and back to my own apartment. It doesn’t. “I already told you that I have, but I haven’t seen yours, okay? I’m sure yours is super special.” I’m going to die of awkward. I cannot look at him, I cannot.
“Well, thank you, Chloe. I like to think that it is.” There’s no hint of laughter in his voice now. Because he’s flat-out laughing. “Good night, Chloe.”
“Good night, Boyd.”
Fourteen
Boyd This was a bad idea. This trip. This hotel room. The one bed. Bad, all bad. Sometime during the night her back ended up cuddled to my front, her ass lined up with my cock. Spooning. We’re fucking spooning.
The texture of her shirt is pressed against my bare chest and I know logically that waffle-weave cotton is the least sexy thing on the planet, but my dick hasn’t gotten the message. I’ve somehow managed to sling an arm around her as she slept and her legs are pressed against mine. Knowing they’re bare just past her tiny excuse for shorts is killing me. Then she shifts and her toes nudge my shin—and my balls get bluer than they already are. I woke up a few minutes ago with a hard-on that got progressively worse as I remembered where I was and who I was pressed up against. Her hair still manages to smell faintly like vanilla and strawberry even with the remnants of hair spray from yesterday. And it’s soft. I know this because I’m playing with the strands flung across my pillow. Like a pervert. Or a besotted asshole.
I hope I’ve read her right. I hope this plan I’ve contrived to get what I want works. Or I’m fucked. I detach myself from her and roll out of bed. She murmurs and her eyelids flutter before she rolls to her back and stretches. I need a shower, right now.
We dance and eat and have a few drinks until I’m yawning and resting my head on Boyd’s shoulder and he kisses the top of my head and says we can leave. I’m in a hazy cloud of contentment that lasts until we reach the hotel room—the hotel room that I’ve yet to see. It starts to fade as the alcohol wears off and Boyd inserts the key into the door. By the time the electronic lock blinks green my anxiety is starting to creep back in. The fake girlfriend part of the evening is over.
The room is stunning, of course. The curtains are open, showcasing the view of the mountain, and there’s a lit fireplace in the corner. These details distract me for approximately three seconds from the real issue with this room.
“Knock, knock, Boyd.”
“Who’s there, Chloe?” He looks amused, and hotter than should be legal as he undoes his tie.
“One bed! One bed is here, that’s who.” I don’t realize I’ve stomped my foot in emphasis until I catch Boyd’s gaze traveling down my leg. Then he laughs while slipping the cufflinks out of his shirt and rolling the sleeves back while my nerves skyrocket. What am I doing here? How did I allow this to happen? My brief experiences with sex never included an overnight—they included getting home by curfew or retreating back to my own dorm room when it was over. And while I don’t think Boyd wants to have sex with me, spending the night with him in the same bed is almost as nerve-racking.
“Sorry,” he says, glancing at me. “This was the only room they had left. I can sleep on the couch if that would make you more comfortable?”
I glance at the couch and feel stupid. “Of course not, it’s fine.”
He watches me for another moment attentively then nods. “You can change in the bathroom. Your suitcase is on a stand in the wardrobe,” he tells me, nodding at the furniture behind me.
I open the doors and dig into my suitcase, still gnawing on my lip when I feel him behind me. “Do you need help with the zipper?” he asks.
Yes. Yes, I do need help with the zipper. I nod and he unzips a very modest length before telling me I should able to get it from there. His voice is soft but husky and I don’t want to get it from there. I want him to yank the dress from my body and fuck me against the wall, but I don’t know how to ask for that. I barely know how to be alone with him.
I take refuge in the bathroom and close the double doors behind me. Apparently just one door isn’t enough for a fancy bathroom in a five-star hotel. I don’t see any obvious way to lock it though, so I settle for shutting the doors firmly so they won’t spring open before washing my makeup off and brushing my teeth. Then I yank on the lavender cotton sleep shorts and gray long-sleeved waffle-knit tee I brought to sleep in and remove the pins from my hair while running my fingers through it.
Okay then. I tap my fingers on my thigh and examine myself in the mirror. Just go back out there and go to bed. That’s all you have to do. No big deal. He might even be asleep already. I blow out a breath at my reflection and then scoop the dress off the floor and exit the bathroom. I stop at the wardrobe to slip the dress onto a hanger, then close the doors and turn towards the room.
“Holy shit, are you naked?” I blurt out. Boyd’s sitting in the bed with the covers up to his waist, his back against the headboard reading something on his tablet. His chest is bare, his perfect, six-pack abs assaulting my eyes from less than ten feet away. This isn’t fair, I mean come on.
“No,” he says slowly. I think he’s confused by me, but I’m not sure because his eyes are on my bare legs and he’s not saying anything. I want to tug at the hem of these sleep shorts, but I resist and instead mentally chastise myself for not packing sweatpants. He flips the cover back and points at his legs—covered by pajama pants.
I’m an idiot. My cheeks flush as I get into the other side of the bed and lie down on my side, facing the wall.
“Just to clarify, you have seen a penis, right?” Boyd asks, the hint of laughter in his voice.
“Oh, my God. Shut up!” I slap a hand over my eyes like that might suddenly transport me out of this mess and back to my own apartment. It doesn’t. “I already told you that I have, but I haven’t seen yours, okay? I’m sure yours is super special.” I’m going to die of awkward. I cannot look at him, I cannot.
“Well, thank you, Chloe. I like to think that it is.” There’s no hint of laughter in his voice now. Because he’s flat-out laughing. “Good night, Chloe.”
“Good night, Boyd.”
Fourteen
Boyd This was a bad idea. This trip. This hotel room. The one bed. Bad, all bad. Sometime during the night her back ended up cuddled to my front, her ass lined up with my cock. Spooning. We’re fucking spooning.
The texture of her shirt is pressed against my bare chest and I know logically that waffle-weave cotton is the least sexy thing on the planet, but my dick hasn’t gotten the message. I’ve somehow managed to sling an arm around her as she slept and her legs are pressed against mine. Knowing they’re bare just past her tiny excuse for shorts is killing me. Then she shifts and her toes nudge my shin—and my balls get bluer than they already are. I woke up a few minutes ago with a hard-on that got progressively worse as I remembered where I was and who I was pressed up against. Her hair still manages to smell faintly like vanilla and strawberry even with the remnants of hair spray from yesterday. And it’s soft. I know this because I’m playing with the strands flung across my pillow. Like a pervert. Or a besotted asshole.
I hope I’ve read her right. I hope this plan I’ve contrived to get what I want works. Or I’m fucked. I detach myself from her and roll out of bed. She murmurs and her eyelids flutter before she rolls to her back and stretches. I need a shower, right now.
