We head to the limo, and by the time we reach the venue, I’ve concocted ten different scenarios with Lo in the backseat, and I’ve spaced out approximately five times. Lo notices my fantastical departures, but I’m sure no one else does.
The spot between my leg pulses, eager to be relieved, but I avoid facing any unease so I torture myself with these images. Of Lo on me. Of Lo in me. Of him whispering to take me. It’s so stupid.
I’m here for Rose.
And yet, I can’t stop.
I ball my hands, forcing myself to concentrate on the present moment.
I’m here.
Nowhere else.
An elevated runway sits in the middle of the room and white plastic chairs line both sides, no one here except photographers, publicists, models, and stylists. Most run off to the backroom where I’m sure Rose busily dresses the models. Daisy is probably being fitted right now in a silk day dress for the everyday kind of girl. I should go see them, but I want to do something else, something I know is wrong in this current time.
“Lo,” I whisper, clutching his bicep. I look at him with shallow breath and bedroom eyes. Please, come with me. Please…
“Can you wait until we go home?”
Ryke catches those words just as Connor dials Rose’s number and wanders off. “What’s wrong?” he asks me.
“Nothing.” I shoot Lo a warning look. “I’ll be right back.” I go to leave for the bathrooms, and Lo catches my wrist.
“You need to try,” he tells me.
“Like you’re trying?”
Lo puts his lips to my ear and whispers, “I am trying. I’ve only had beer today. You know this.”
I can’t imagine not fulfilling this need right now. It hurts too much. It’s all I can think about. And if Lo won’t help me, then I’ll help myself. Without cheating. I disentangle from him. “I don’t want to sit through the show like this. We have time.”
“What is it that you need to do?” Ryke asks me. I hate the hard tone of his voice, as though I’m one step away from killing Lo by causing him stress, by handing him a glass of alcohol, by watching him drink without reproach.
I glare. “It’s none of your business.”
“Hey,” Ryke says. “I was just going to ask if I could help.”
My cheeks heat. “You can’t.”
“Jesus, someone woke up on the wrong side of the fucking bed.”
“Don’t you talk about me in a bed,” I retort, being nonsensical and irrational.
Lo grabs my wrist. “Lily, stop.”
“You’re defending him?” I gape. “Really, Lo!”
Lo whispers heatedly in my ear. “Do you hear yourself right now? You’re not thinking right.”
I shove Lo off my chest. “You both are assholes,” I say, looking between them as they stand side by side. Dapper, handsome, ice and stone. I hate them. I hate me. “I don’t even know why I agreed to any of this.” To being with Lo. To letting Ryke follow us around. If I stop and think for two seconds, maybe I’ll understand that I’m projecting all of my anxiety from the fashion show onto them. And it’s unfair, immature and cruel. But I don’t want to think. I just want to do.
I inhale sharp, sporadic breaths. I need to go. Now. I race to the bathroom, a lot faster than Lo, and head into the men’s room rather than the women’s. A guy in his thirties sees me through the mirror as he relieves himself. He curses and zips up his fly. Confidence inflates my body—the need to do this surpassing everything else.
I pick a stall without saying a word to him.
Lo walks in, not even glancing at the guy. He sets his sights on me, only me, and looks as though he wants to devour me whole or maybe choke me. Yes.
He slams the stall shut behind us and roughly grabs my wrists. He spins my body so my backside rubs against his pelvis and places my palms on the tiled wall. My back curves in an angle, my feet just outside of the toilet.
“You want this?” Lo growls, his hand slipping underneath my dress, his fingers finding the wettest spot.
I gasp, my eyes rolling back. Please.
He wraps a hand over my mouth, muffling my moans as he pushes his fingers in and out. My palms slip on the tile, and I almost knock my head into the hard wall, but Lo has a tight hold on me, keeping me on two feet.
He thrusts inside, and I lose myself to the pleasure, to the bliss, to the hardness of him. My breathing sharpens in my throat, and he never slows. He slams against me, as though telling me I’ve been bad. And I take it with batted breath and headiness.