“You live here?” I ask after Reid leads me through a large wrought iron gate and into the backyard of a mansion.
He chuckles. “My parents live there.” He points in the direction of the extremely large home. “I live here,” he adds, nodding toward a small brick building beside the pool.
“You live there,” I repeat, and he smiles as if it’s a totally normal thing for kids to have their own houses in their parents’ backyard.
He opens one of two glass-paned doors and leads me inside. “You okay?”
I nod. “I’m okay.”
I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay again after that. All I can do is pray the alcohol makes me forget.
“I have a T-shirt if you want to change,” he offers. His voice is calm, soothing.
I spot his basketball jersey lying on the corner of his bed. “What about this?”
He smiles and shrugs, “If that’s what you want. The bathroom is right there,” he points at one of the two doors behind us.
“Okay,” I say, ignoring his last remark.
I pull the bottom of my tank top up slowly, exposing my flesh in small doses. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as I lift the garment over my head and throw it onto the floor. Then I unfasten the top button of my skirt, continuing on to unzip it while Reid watches with childlike fascination as I stand here in nothing more than my black bra and thong.
“Your turn,” I say, hooking a finger in the top of his jeans and tugging him towards me.
He swallows hard as he slips his fingertips under the strap of my bra and pulls it off my shoulder. I fumble with the button of his jeans, and he chuckles.
“Maybe you should let me handle that.” He takes a step back and pulls off his shirt, tossing it on the floor.
If I thought Carter was hot, Reid is on fire. He’s got creases and bumps in all the right places, and when he moves—just the slightest flex of a muscle—his veins bulge like he belongs on a Bowflex commercial. His jeans ride low on his hips, calling attention to a perfectly formed arrow to his crotch and making me wonder if he’s even wearing underwear.
I am openly gawking at him and have to remind myself to breathe.
I lose the battle against the uncontrollable urge I’ve had to touch him since the moment he first sat down at my dining table. Taking a step forward, I run my hands across his shoulders and over his chest, then down his deliciously toned abdomen to trace the outlines of that enticing little “V.”
“You are perfect,” I tell him.
“You are drunk,” he says with a breathy laugh.
Reid takes my hands and pulls them away from his body. Then he takes the jersey and slides it over my head. “Get in bed, Makenna. We both need sleep.”
I don’t know where I am or what time it is, but I do know I need a toilet.
Now.
I hurry out of bed and run through the first door I find. Thank God it’s a bathroom and not a closet.
I’m hugging the cold hard porcelain and puking my guts up when something soft and cool runs over my face. A warm hand pulls my hair off my forehead. Just when I think there’s no way that I can possibly throw up anymore, the urge hits me again, only this time nothing comes out. Instead of throwing up, my body involuntarily convulses, and it hurts like hell. I lay my head on the toilet seat in defeat while Reid re-wets the washcloth and wipes my face again.
“This sucks,” I whine, and he smiles. “I’m serious. I’m never drinking again.”
He laughs out loud and rubs my back. “I’ve said that once or twice.”
He makes it sound like I don’t mean it. I totally mean it. I can’t imagine doing this to my body again. It’s miserable.
I ease myself down on the cold, welcoming tile of the bathroom floor and stay here, because surprisingly, it feels much better than the cushy mattress.
When I wake up, I’m back in bed with Reid’s arm draped over my midsection. I gently remove it and slide out of bed, scanning the room for my own clothes.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” I hear him say as I gather up my skirt and tank top.