15
Abigail
Iknow my phone will have a billion missed calls. I know my brothers will probably have sent out search parties in the last six hours or so. And I know my six o’clock phone call slot has passed, and Mitch is going to besupermad at me.
I plan to get up in just a sec, but I need to absorb this for a minute more. Spencer Serrano – big, broad, strong, and definitely scary – dozes on my chest and holds my hand while he breathes against my skin.
I shouldn’t have stayed last night, and I especially shouldn’t have slept in his bed. I have no clue what to say about the things I did with my mouth, and if I tried, I might die from blushing. But strangely, the scariest thing is the fact I’m letting him sleep on my chest.
Who am I? And why have I let go of my rules so quickly?
“I can hear you thinking, Priss.” His hand massages my hip with slow movements. “Relax, the world isn’t gonna fall down because you slept in a man’s bed. You remain unsullied…” He pauses. “Mostly.”
“Be quiet. And get off me, I have to get up.”
“I don’t wanna.” He leans heavier into me, and presses a kiss to the center of my chest.
My heart comes to a complete standstill, because he’s too close. Too comfortable. And my bra is too skewed and off-center.
“Get off.” I push him away and sit up. My joints noisily pop as my arms reflexively come up to stretch.
I know I look awfullysulliedright now, what with the missing panties and messy hair. And a large part of me knows it’s the truth.
We might not have had sex, but I will still never be able to go to my future husband and promise I saved everything for him.
And Spencer made it so I would always remember him as the guy who stole my panties.
Groaning when I remember exactly that – my panties, gone – I stand and head toward the attached bathroom to pee and take stock of the mess I’ve become. I’m probably supposed to leave the door open or something, considering he’s seen almost every part of my body, but I need a minute to be alone, and the bathroom is as good an excuse as any.
I’m desperately tempted to climb into the luxurious shower stall and experience the showerhead that hangs from the ceiling. All of the showers I’ve ever seen had the head coming from the wall, but this one is massive, a square foot at least, and comes out of the ceiling. It makes me think of waterfalls, and yearn for the steamy water and ten minutes alone.
But if I turn those taps on, I know Spencer will follow me in. Oral sex is one thing, but a shower together is a hard limit that I’m not willing to bend on.
I tiptoe across freezing, bullet gray tile and sit on the toilet. I’m pleasantly surprised to find the bathroom clean; there are no towels on the floor, no shavings in the sink, no urine on the toilet seat. I grew up with far too many brothers to have never sat on someone else’s pee before, so it brings a small smile to my face as I relieve myself and hum with pleasure.
He wasn’t expecting me last night, so it’s not like he had time to run around and tidy up. Which means Spencer is clean, and that makes my soul soar.
I finish up, flush, then walk to the sink and wash my hands. Saving the worst for last, I keep my eyes down. I wash with soap, experiment with the water temperature, wash again, then dry off. When I can’t put it off any longer, I stop and look up…
And gasp at the woman staring back at me.
My hair is wild and points in too many directions. My cheeks are flushed, but I actually kind of like that. Dark circles shadow beneath my eyes, because despite the fact we spent about twelve hours in Spencer’s bed, I most certainly did not sleep twelve hours.
My shirt is wrinkled, and my breasts are off center. Off balance. They’re justoff.
I reach back with my hands under my shirt and fix my bra. I straighten it out, re-clip the third hook, which slipped free at some point in the night, then bring my arms to the front and tuck myself back in so everything sits comfortably.
All the while, I stare into my eyes and nibble on my bottom lip. It’s almost like theScarlet Letter, like I wear this badge of shame that anyone could see if only they looked. But I don’t feel all that ashamed.
I arch my neck and frown at the marks that never used to be there. Bringing a hand up, I run my fingertips over them and muse over their cause. Stubble burn? Bite marks?
He’s rough with me when so few are. He empowers me, and if I try to chicken out, he coaches me through a situation until I have a brand-new experience under my belt.
I clear my throat at my unintended pun.
“Abigail?” I jump when Spencer knocks on the door. “Come out, Priss. There are no external windows in there. You can’t escape.”
“I’m coming.” I roll my eyes. “Be quiet.”