Before the elevator closes, a man rushes in, slipping his fingers between the doors. They bounce back at his touch.
He pants heavily, out of breath, and I watch as he runs a hand through his thick brown hair. He presses the button to the floor below mine, and the elevator rises.
I check for a ring. None. His charcoal suit looks expensive, his gold watch validating my suspicions. Late twenties, early thirties. Lawyer, I predict. But I don’t care much about it. Not when the shape of his body appears to be hard, toned and powerful.
This is the easy part. Not knowing him. Letting my passions consume me for a single instant. This is what I do best. As my confidence soars, I shut my eyes, inhaling a deep, thoughtful breath.
With his hot gaze, he skims the length of my bare legs that peek beneath an elegant white, backless dress. I slowly peel off my black coat and shift suggestively. He has a view of the very small of my back, the part bare and eager to be taken hold of.
I rest a hand on the elevator wall, my breath low and strained. And his body slides against me, those large palms on my slender hips. I lower one to my thigh, to the place between my legs. And he grows. A sound sticks to my throat, and I keep my hands on the wall. He finds his way into me. Yes.
His fingers tighten around my waist, cinching my dress, pulling it higher. One of his hands holds my shoulder to drive deeper. And with one last thrust—
Bing.
My eyes snap open, and I turn bright red from the fantasy I created. That guy has no idea that I pictured him unchastely with me. I stand by the wall, my hands bunched in my coat pockets, holding in that strained breath.
And the man—he doesn’t look back, doesn’t even acknowledge my existence—he slips out of the elevator doors that have burst open.
My fantasy built the tension, but it never released it. As the doors shut, I bang the back of head on the wall. Stupid, Lily.
I reach my floor and walk down the hall. Right now, I wish I could revert back to my high school self. Where I had sex maybe once a month. Most hours were filled with porn and my imagination. Now, very little excites me, and when I find something that does, I think about it constantly. I can barely even last a whole day without being gratified by a set of hands and a male body thrumming against mine.
What’s wrong with me?
I throw my keys in the basket, hang up my coat and kick off my heels, trying not to think about what just happened. The smell of scotch lingers in the air. As I head to my door, I pass Lo’s and suddenly stop.
“Hey,” a girl giggles. “Don’t…” She moans. Moans.
What is he doing to her? The creepy thought loiters, and I bite my nails, picturing Lo.
His hands on my legs, my hands on his chest, his lips against mine, mine against his. Lily, he breathes, bringing me close, his hold so very tight. He looks at me with those amber eyes, narrowed with passion. And he knows just what to do to make me—
“Oh…God!” She starts screaming as he finds the right spot. He must be good in bed, and I find myself wishing she’d go away. What does it matter if he has a girl in the room? I told him he needed to have sex. And he’s having it. I should be happy he’s finally getting laid.
But I’m not swallowing a happy pill right now.
I bottle my feelings that begin to brew and confuse. I slip into my room, ready for a shower. My phone beeps, and I open the text.
Don’t forget, we’re dress shopping tomorrow. Thanks for coming tonight. Love you. –Poppy
Dress shopping. Oh yeah. For the Christmas Charity Gala. Even months away, the girls want to find perfect outfits for the event. Including jewelry, heels, and clutches. The whole ordeal will take hours, but I’ll be there.
Thump, thump, thump.
Lo’s headboard. Into my wall. A ball tightens in my throat, and I scroll through my list of contacts, hesitating on the escort service. After the last gigolo turned a physical day into an emotional one, I’ve avoided any interaction with paid-to-screw men.
I toss my phone on my purple comforter.
Thump, thump.
Shower, I try to remind myself. Yes. I head to my bathroom.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Good God.
I turn the nozzle to hot, shed my clothes, step in and shut my eyes—trying to think about anything other than sex. And Loren Hale.
{6}
I sit on a Victorian chaise in the dressing room lobby, surrounded by too many mirrors and too many racks of dresses, some costing more than bridal gowns.
While my sisters try on long, draping beauties in deep wintery colors, I protect the dozens of shopping bags from the jewelers and shoe stores. After choosing a plum gown with lacy sleeves—my first choice—I no longer have to agonize over what to wear to the Charity Gala. I happily sit outside, stealing glances at a cute guy one chaise over. He twists a ring on his finger and checks his watch, waiting for his wife in a curtained dressing room to the left of Rose’s.