No Tomorrow: An Angsty Love Story

I’ve glanced at the digital clock sitting on my desk so many times this morning I’ve practically given myself a seizure. My heart pitter pats with every minute that brings me closer to noon.

What the hell is wrong with me? This isn’t like me at all. I’ve never felt butterflies over a guy before—not even when I started dating Josh—my first, only, and now ex-boyfriend.

That was different, though. Josh and I were strictly friends with no feelings for each other whatsoever for two years, until one day we were having lunch and out of nowhere he suggested that we date. I stopped chewing my corned beef sandwich and stared at him for a few seconds, then agreed.

And that was it. We added kissing and groping to what we were already doing, and it worked. For almost a year. Then he went off to college a few hours away, and we slowly drifted apart. We never even slept together. We fooled around a lot, but every time things started to go further, we both froze. Not purposely… It just happened, like a reaction we couldn’t control.

Josh is a sweet, easy-going guy. He never pushed or coaxed me. The crazy, giddy, I want-to-kiss-you-nonstop-and-rip-your-clothes-off passion wasn’t there. I used to think those types of feelings weren’t important as long as two people had trust and care for each other. And we had that. He made me laugh and he made me feel safe and comfortable. But now, after watching Titanic a bajillion times, I’m wondering why I didn’t feel more with Josh. Did I unknowingly sacrifice chemistry and passion for comfort?

What am I feeling around Evan, anyway? It’s not butterflies, exactly. It’s more like fireflies. A spark of light and heat fading into the dark. A quick feeling of ooh that I can’t wait to feel again.

It’s unsettling, but even more than that, exhilarating.

When noon finally arrives, I head over to the park, and the absence of acoustic music hits me hard as I walk through the iron gates. I quicken my steps and strain to hear his guitar, but the air is populated with chirping birds and people talking as they walk by. Evan and Acorn aren’t in their usual spot at the brick wall. As I sit on my bench, a pang twitches in my chest. I was hoping to see him today. I desperately wanted to feel that surge of strange excitement when he smiles at me. I wanted to hear what songs he would play today and guess which ones were his own.

As I eat my salad, I watch people walk by, everyone appearing to be in a rush to get somewhere. I fear I’m going to end up just like these people—rushing through the day and life in general to get to the next place, only to keep rushing more to get somewhere else. Maybe Evan has the right idea after all, being completely free.

I wonder if his quest for freedom has taken him away from here for good. Saddened by that possibility, I throw my salad container in my lunch bag and leave my bench to stroll around the park. Unlike the others, I walk slowly, shutting out the voices and rapid steps to enjoy the sound of the leaves blowing in the trees. Without conscious thought or plan, I find myself nearing the old stone bridge. The place Evan ate his burger. The same one he told me he slept under.

Biting my lip, I peer down the grassy slope leading to the old vacant road beneath the bridge. I take a deep breath and carefully walk the weed-ridden path.

I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop myself. I’m pulled by some type of magnetism I can’t explain or resist.

As I round the stone wall of the bridge, I see him sitting on the ground. His legs are stretched out, his eyes are closed, and he’s holding a rock the size of a baseball against his forehead. Acorn lies beside him with his head resting on Evan’s leg—a perfect picture of man’s best friend and guardian.

I waver a few feet away unsure whether to approach him or walk away and pretend I never saw him. He could be drunk or high. Why else would he be sitting so incredibly still, holding a rock?

I take a few hesitant steps closer, too overcome with worry and curiosity to leave without making sure he’s okay.

“Evan,” I say softly.

He lowers the rock, and his forehead creases when his bloodshot eyes focus on me.

“Piper?” Squinting, he shakes his head and peers around me to stare down the path I just came from, then levels his gaze on my face. “What are you doing down here?”

“I-I was worried about you.” I’m a stalker now, seeking out homeless men under bridges. “Are you okay? You don’t look so great.”

He closes his eyes and leans the back of his head against the bridge. “I’ve had a migraine since last night,” he mumbles. “I can’t even stand up.”

I take a few steps closer and kneel next to him, cursing myself for wearing a skirt and hoping I’m not flashing him. Thankfully, I’m wearing black silk panties and not silly kittens.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, I just have to ride it out. The cold of the rock helps.”

I swallow over the lump of sadness in my throat. He should have an ice pack and be sleeping in a clean bed in a quiet, dark room. I unzip my lunch bag, pull out my unopened water bottle, and set it on the ground next to him.

“You can have my water. It’s cold,” I say. “I could run over to the pharmacy down the street… get you an ice pack and some ibuprofen. Maybe something to eat?”

“Nah… I’ll be okay if I rest.” He grabs the water and untwists the cap. “You’re sweet.” After he gulps almost half the water, he presses the damp bottle against his forehead. “Been a long time since someone cared about me.”

I touch Acorn’s head and scratch between his ears, and his tail thumps happily. “He cares about you,” I reply with a smile.

Evan flashes me a weak grin. “True… but having someone like you giving a shit about me is like winning the fucking lottery.”

Every insecure molecule of me dances with sheer giddiness. Me? A lottery?

“I think your migraine has given you brain damage.”

“My brain is fine.”

Our eyes meet. The usual light in his blue eyes has been snuffed out, leaving them eerily vacant, as if he’s no longer behind them. I miss the carefree man with the charming smile, puppy dog eyes, and beautiful music.

Cautiously, I reach out and touch his forehead, gently caressing his warm brow, and whisper to him, “My mom used to rub my head when I was little and didn’t feel good.”

When he closes his eyes, his long, dark lashes touch his cheeks. “Mine never did.”

Taking a breath, I lean closer to him. The pavement digs into my knees, but I ignore it, focusing on balancing so I can use both hands to reach him. I rub his forehead and temples, surprised by the softness of his hair under my fingertips.

His pained expression gradually softens under my touch. He inches his hand across the pavement until he bumps against my bare knee. I don’t move away and he stays there.

“You have magic fingers, Ladybug.”

God, that voice… gritty and low with pain but so damn sinfully sexy. I massage his forehead for a few more minutes, then push his hair back away from his face before I lean back on my heels.

“I hope that helped you feel a little better.”

With a nod, he lies down, using Acorn’s furry body as a pillow, and I can tell by the way the dog curls around him that they sleep this way often.

Worry plagues me as I walk back to my office, and Evan’s sad eyes haunt me for the rest of the day. I can’t imagine how awful it must be to feel sick and not have a bed to sleep in, a bathroom to use, or medication and something to drink and eat.

Or someone to take care of you other than your dog.

Hours later I’m at home eating balsamic honey chicken over wild rice, feeling incredibly grateful for everything I have. I have a family who, annoying as they can be, loves and cares about me. A kitchen full of food. A queen-sized bed with a warm down comforter to snuggle under every night. A steady paycheck.

After dinner, I say good night to my parents and retreat to my space downstairs, debating between watching a movie, calling Ditra, or reading in the bathtub until I shrivel up like a prune.

Bathtub wins!

Until I open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet to grab a hair clip and an opaque orange bottle of painkillers catches my eye—prescribed to me a few months ago when I had my wisdom teeth pulled. I never finished them because they made me throw up.

Fingering the bottle, my mind spins a web of good intentions.

I take the bottle into the kitchenette, grab a plastic bag from my junk drawer, and toss the pill bottle into the bag. Seconds later, I’ve added a can of cold ginger ale, an unopened bag of pretzel sticks, and an apple. Before I know it, I’m in my car, driving toward the park with my care package of pills and goodies on the passenger seat next to me.

He’s sick. He has no one. I’m a caring person. I often put food and water out for stray cats and toss peanut butter cookies to our neighborhood squirrels. This is the same thing. I’m not trying to shift into any kind of caretaker mode with him. I only want to be a nice person and stay on the good side of karma.

Finding a spot for my car is much easier at night since most of the stores are closed. The park is vacant and eerily quiet. Clutching the tiny canister of mace that’s attached to my key ring in one hand and the plastic bag in the other, I make my way down the dark walkway that leads to the decaying bridge. Thankfully, there are scattered pole lights in the park, illuminating the main walking path, but they are fewer and farther between as I near the old bridge.

As I carefully descend the small hill, my heart races with trepidation. In my rush to leave the house, I didn’t even think to change out of my skirt and heels into jeans and sneakers.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

My breath catches when I find Evan in the same exact place, sitting on the ground with Acorn, a small solar lantern glowing next to them.

I look around nervously as I approach, afraid there might be other homeless men nearby. I almost expect a bunch of them to be down here, drinking and standing around in front of a garbage can bonfire like they do on television. But there aren’t any other people here. There’s just Evan and Acorn.

And me.

The clicking of my heels announces my arrival, and his head snaps in my direction. After giving Acorn a quick pet on the head, he stands and takes a few unsure steps toward me.

“Piper… what are you doing here?” He glances behind me. “It’s not safe at night—”

Holding the bag up, I interrupt him by talking in warp speed. “I brought you a few things. A soda and pretzels and an apple and Vicodin.”

Before accepting the bag from me, he takes a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out as he exhales. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. I was worried about you. You looked so sick earlier.”

“I appreciate it. But I can’t take these.” He pulls the bottle of pills out of the bag and hands them to me.

I close my fingers around the bottle. “I thought they would help your headache.”

“They would.” He lets out a clipped laugh. “They really fuckin’ would.”

I narrow my eyes, and he nervously pushes his hair behind his ear.

“I’m an addict, Piper.”

My stomach sinks. I was right—he’s a junkie. I knew it.

He licks his lips, the metal piercing catching a sliver of moonlight reflection. “I’ve been clean for two years, but I can’t take any chances and go down that road again. I’d rather suffer through the pain and everything else.”

His eyes shift to the bottle in my hand as if it’s a treasure. The line of his jaw clenches, his lust for the drugs invading the space between us. I’ve never been remotely addicted to anything but chocolate and ice cream, but I can guess how hard it is to stay away from something he craves badly.

I’m obviously failing at it myself.

“I’m so sorry, Evan. I totally understand.” Flustered, I shove the bottle into my purse and quickly zip it shut. “I had no idea. I apologize.” Leave it to me to wave drugs in front of a recovering addict.

“Don’t worry about it. I feel better now, just tired.”

“I’m glad.” Pinned by his intense stare, my pulse quickens, unsure if he now sees me as a source of pills or something else.

I smile nervously. “You must think I’m nuts, coming down here twice. I’m not a stalker. I promise.”

“No… I think you’re just a really good person.” He sets the bag of snacks down next to the lantern. “Way too good to be here with me.”

“That’s not tr—”

Without warning, his mouth is on mine, open and hot. Stumbling backward from the shock, I clutch the soft fabric of his flannel shirt as he grabs the back of my head and pulls my mouth harder against his. There’s not one hint of gentleness in his kiss. It’s raw, rough, and unapologetically demanding. When my lips part in an attempt to either moan or protest—I’m not sure which—his tongue invades my mouth, annihilating my words while he slowly slides his hand from the nape of my neck down to my waist. Those long fingers that move over the guitar strings so perfectly grip me so hard I’m sure I’ll have bruises tomorrow.

He backs me up until my spine slams against the cold stone wall, then pulls away, just far enough to stare down into my eyes but close enough that I can feel his breath against my face.

He edges his other hand up and closes it around my neck, the span of his huge palm covering my throat. My pulse thumps wildly against his grasp as I struggle to swallow. I’m paralyzed, not just because he’s got my throat in a chokehold, but because the undeniable flash of lust I see in his eyes is sending an army of white-hot electrifying tingles throughout my entire body. Warmth floods between my thighs despite the chill in the air. Closing his eyes, he lowers his head and slowly drags his nose across my cheek. He inhales deeply.

His voice is deep and husky when his mouth touches the corner of mine. “You should get out of here.”

My heartbeat thunders in my ears. “I don’t want to.”

Exhaling with a low rumble, he releases my throat. He clenches the back of my neck, threading his fingers through my hair. Using the tension of my hair in his grasp, he pulls my face toward his. My scalp stings with the tightening of his fingers, and he silences my gasp by filling my mouth with his tongue. The metal bar dings against my teeth on the way in. Trembling from head to toe with a dizzying mix of fear and desire, I grip his shoulders for stability—or maybe just to get my hands on him.

Leaning closer, he shoves his leg between mine, his jeans chafing against the flesh of my thighs as he pushes them apart. The cool night breeze travels up my skirt and sends a shiver through my limbs. I move my hand to his chest, but he quickly snatches it and pins it against the wall above our heads, locking his fingers into mine. He moves his leg up against my crotch, lifting me about a foot off the ground, bringing my lips level with his.

My entire being spins into a euphoric haze as he kisses me deeper. I lose the ability to think or breathe. I surrender to his touch and become mindless, boneless, thoughtless.

And in that moment, utterly regretless.

I don’t push this stranger away. I don’t say no. The sighs and whimpers that drift from my lips while his mouth devours me beg for more. My body and mind consent. I have no choice but to straddle his leg, and the pressure against my clit makes me want to rub all over him like a cat. Drowning in him, I gulp his breath into my lungs. He’s tobacco and mint-infused oxygen, resuscitating me.

Slowly lowering me to my feet, he moves his free hand to the hem of my skirt and lightly traces the edge of the material. The silver rings on his fingers are smooth and cold against my skin. He inches his hand beneath my skirt and squeezes my inner thigh hard enough to make me wince. I slip further down the rabbit hole when his finger languidly glides back and forth over the damp spot at the front of my panties, coaxing me, teasing me, luring me.

Blood flows back to my hand when he releases it from its prison against the stone above our heads. I flex my fingers and stare into his darkening eyes, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

He presses his thumb to the thin material against my clit and traces a lazy circle. He watches me, his lips hovering over mine, and it’s perfectly tantalizing the way his finger moves so unrushed, making me powerless to resist rocking into his touch for more. He’s savoring my every fluttering breath, my every response. I can see it in the flash and burn of his eyes and in his ragged breathing—which is unexpected and provocative. Nobody has ever looked at me like he does.

And I’m sure no one ever will.

This man could rape me or kill me down here at the dark edge of the park. No one would know. He could easily walk away with his guitar and his dog, on to the next town. Free. Not a soul would ever know I came here on my own, allowed him to put his hands and his mouth on my body and conjure desire out of me.

Piper would never do such a thing, they’d say.

But I like this. For once, I’m not boring, safe, and predictable little Piper. I’ve walked willingly into the depths of the unknown, which comes under the guise of inked arms and a beautiful voice. He’s my first taste of wild, and he’s nothing short of delicious.

His husky whisper pulls me in. “Turn around.”

Blinking, I suffer a brief hesitation. Common sense and morals almost reel me in from the edge I’m teetering on.

Almost, but not quite.

Slowly, I turn, and my hair is tugged roughly to the side, forcing my head to whip to the left. He brings his mouth down on the back of my neck, with the graze of sharp teeth. He caresses my shoulders, then slowly trails his touch down my arms. Lacing our fingers together, he drags his lips from my neck to my shoulder while placing my palms flat against the wall.

My heart pounds so hard I’m surprised it’s not cracking my ribcage. My fingertips grip the wall as the world spins like a top around me, and I fear I may pass out from—what? Fear? Excitement?

Anticipation. Exquisite anticipation.

With my head turned to the side, he’s a large, looming shadow behind me. A few feet away, the lantern gradually grows dimmer and dimmer, running out of the energy that fuels it. Soon it will fade out completely, and we’ll be in pitch darkness.

Encircling my waist with his hands, he leans down until his lips meet the outer curve of my ear.

“Do you think I’m dirty?” he whispers as he tugs my skirt up to my waist. Just as the glow of the lantern dies out, he tears my panties off and throws them to the ground.

Gulping, I answer without even thinking. “Yes.”

“Good. I’m going to make you dirty, too,” he growls against my ear. “And it’s never going to wash off.”

I silently agree with his prediction as his hands move down my hips to cup my ass cheeks, squeezing hard. He bites into the flesh of my neck, and his wet tongue follows, soothing and then sucking savagely, causing me to cry out as he slips a hand between my thighs. Long, talented fingers slide between my wet lips. My cry morphs into a gasp, and his lips curve into a grin against the side of my throat.

An owl hoots somewhere in the trees above us.

Acorn rustles on the ground beside us.

And behind me, the distinct sound of a zipper.

A light, misty rain blows on us in the breeze. We were born in the rain, I realize, as he plunges his rock-hard length into me, lifting me off my feet. Pain seers through my body, radiating from my pelvis to my limbs. With every thrust of his hips, my cheek presses against the stone, but I can’t move. It hurts. It feels so good. I want it to stop. I want more.

He snakes his arm around my front, skims his hand down my belly, and zeroes in on my throbbing clit, fingering it in perfect time with his deep strokes. I can feel my walls tearing and stretching to take his width. The primal eroticism makes me quiver and clench around him despite the sharp pain.

Leaning his forehead against the top of my head, his damp hair hangs down over me, tickling my cheeks and bare shoulder, bringing with it the scent of sandalwood, coconut, and tobacco. My clit pulses and spasms in his fingers as he brings me to orgasm, my moans and short yelps pervading the silence of the night.

I yelp when he abruptly pulls out, spins me around, and covers my mouth with his before I have a chance to catch my breath. Wobbling on my high heels, I grip his arms, lost in the whirlwind of feelings assaulting my body and mind.

Did we—? What did we just do?

Tangled around his ring-clad fingers, my hair is pulled, forcing my head down. Forcing me to kneel on the ground.

“Suck me,” he rasps, dragging his knuckles across my cheek as he gazes down at me.

Grasping his stiff, damp cock in my hand, I take him into my mouth and lick and suck him like I’ve done this a hundred times before—which I haven’t. He tastes salty and metallic, a cocktail of us. If memories had a flavor, ours would be salt and blood. It’s disgusting and beautiful, and I lose my mind. This man is a drug and I’m an addict. I’m high on him and us, lost in the twirling world around me, every smell, sight, and touch heightened and vivid and so incredibly disconnected and hazy.

Maybe he slipped me a roofie when he kissed me. Maybe he had something on his tongue and now I’m high as a kite. Or maybe this is all just a crazy-ass sex dream and I’m going to wake up next to Archie the cat any moment with Titanic playing in the background.

I gag on the cock slamming into my tonsils.

Nope. This isn’t a dream. I’m choking on a stranger’s dick.

This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t me.

“Piper….” Grabbing the back of my head, he breathes out my name as hot cum propels down my throat. I swallow him and he slowly pulls out, skimming over my lips. I wipe my wet mouth with the back of one hand while my other clenches the side of his leg.

He helps me to my feet before zipping himself back into his jeans, and I avoid any eye contact, attempting to straighten my skirt over my bare ass. My panties, my favorite pair with the pretty lace trim, are lost somewhere on the ground.

As I try to focus in the dark, Evan leans down to capture my mouth with his, but I quickly turn my face away, escaping the kiss. My mouth no longer feels like my own. My lips are numb, my tongue tingly, my throat burning.

“I have to go.” My voice shakes as I shiver uncontrollably and step away from him, tripping over my purse as I do so. I don’t even remember dropping it. Nor do I remember the misty rain stopping. I quickly snatch up my purse and throw the strap over my shoulder.

“I-I have to go,” I repeat and sprint through the foggy darkness in the direction I came from, running my hand along the damp stone until I find the end of the bridge, ignoring his voice calling after me.

On my hands and knees I crawl up the hill and let out a sob of relief when I finally reach the asphalt path. My heels clack as I practically run toward the safety of the wrought-iron gates. The shape of my bench appears under one of the lamps, and I’m suddenly overcome with nausea.

Clutching my stomach, I run to the garbage can I’ve thrown my lunch into every day for months and vomit into it, my horrible retching echoing around me. Using the garbage can for balance, I fish in my purse for a mint and suck wildly on it before I continue to walk toward my car. The taste of vomit and sex in my mouth is overpowering, an acrid poison I will never forget.

I drive home like a certified lunatic. An endless stream of tears flow down my cheeks and I’m shocked I don’t crash into something or get pulled over for speeding and driving erratically. When I reach my driveway, I’m relieved to see all the lights in the house are off except for the front porch, signaling they’ve all gone to bed.

Thank God.

Even with the heat in my car blasting, I shivered all the way home, and I’m still shaking when I let myself in the house and quietly go down to my room. Ignoring Archie’s stare from beside his half-empty food dish, I toss my purse onto the couch, kick off my shoes, and make a beeline for the bathroom. I lock the door behind me.

The reflection in the mirror above the sink nearly makes me puke again.

I blink at the girl there as she stares back at me. I have no idea who she is. She’s a mess, breathing heavy with her mouth partially open. Her hair is damp and looks as if she was recently electrocuted or is channeling Cher. The charcoal eyeliner and mascara she spent fifteen minutes perfecting this morning are now smeared under her puffy eyes and across her pale cheeks. Her lips are abnormally red and swollen, the corners of her mouth slightly cracked.

From sucking dick.

Trembling, I take a deep breath and try to get my shit together.

Half an hour ago, two of the most intimate parts of my body were stretched around a huge cock, and now there’s dried cum on my chin and in my hair. My gaze drifts down to the blotchy red marks on my neck as memories of his lips, teeth, and hands biting, sucking, and gripping me sends another wave of odd euphoria through me.

I shouldn’t be turned on by this… should I?

Pulling my clothes off, I decide I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I need a hot shower and a gallon of soothing aloe and lavender body wash. I turn on the hot water and look at my naked body in the full-length mirror on the back of the door while the small room fills with steam. I zero in on the faint black and blue bruises in the shapes of his fingertips marking my waist, thighs, and throat. I lightly run my fingers over them in fascination, until a small stain of dried blood smeared on my inner thigh catches my eye. Frantically, I grab a tissue from the box on the vanity and wipe it across my vagina, and there’s a few spots of bright-red blood. I toss it in the toilet and quickly flush it. I don’t need Exhibit A: Loss of Virginity sitting in my wastebasket for Archie to pull out and drag around my room like a prize.

My heart jumps into my throat when I realize I don’t know if Evan wore a condom. Gripping the edge of the porcelain sink, I play the moments over and over in my head while my pulse races, but I can’t dredge up the sound of the wrapper being ripped open or a lapse when he might have been putting it on. Or taking it off. His stiff cock went directly from my pussy to my mouth in a matter of seconds.

There was no condom.

A swarm of anxiety sucks the air out of my lungs. How could I be so stupid and irresponsible to let a stranger screw my brains out under a bridge without protection? Me… who won’t even use a public restroom unless it’s a last resort. Me… who’s been waiting for my first time to be some kind of off-the-charts romantic experience with a man I’d want to marry. Did I suffer temporary insanity tonight? It’s like someone else just took over my body and my brain, and now I could have just lost my virginity, acquired five STDs, and gotten pregnant all at once.

With a homeless man.

My body sways with a dizzying freak-out, and I suck in another grounding, deep breath as I step into the shower stall, still trembling despite the scalding water. The tears don’t stop. They mingle with the water dripping down my face as I scrub my flesh with a washcloth soaked in soap.

I’m going to make you dirty, too. And it’s never going to wash off.

He’s right. I can’t scrub away the memories of how he kissed, rammed, and tasted. And I already know I’ll lust over the bruises long after they’ve faded.

God help me, I don’t want to wash any of it away.

I stay in the shower until the hot water turns icy cold, then wrap a thick towel around myself and go straight to bed, crawling naked under my blankets and falling instantly into a mentally and physically exhausted sleep.

I wake up groggy the next morning with a dull pain between my legs, an immediate reminder of what happened last night with Evan.

What exactly did happen last night?

I don’t even know how to describe any of it. Was that a one-night stand? A quick down-and-dirty screw? I can only imagine what he must think of me now. Not that his opinion should matter, really. I mean, he’s the homeless one. Not me. I have a job and a car and a bank account and a cat.

I also have blue, purple, and red bruises scattered all over my body from sex with him because the gift of speech completely took a hike out of my life last night when I should have been saying no.

He told you to leave, Piper. Remember? You said you didn’t want to. Your ability to speak was working just fine when you said that. And speaking of your mouth, it was also functioning perfectly fine when you sucked and swallowed him as though he were your last meal.

Shit.

I’m lying to myself. His opinion matters to me very much.

The digital alarm clock on my night table beeps me out of my daydream, and I slam the rectangular button until it turns off. There’s no way I’m going to work today with all the madness shuffling through my brain. I’ll never be able to focus on documents or deal with the endless ringing of the phone, and lunch hour is a stressy dilemma I’m not ready to face. I’m too unsettled and embarrassed to go to the park today. What if Evan’s not there? Or what if he is and he ignores me? What if he comes over to my bench to talk? What would we say to each other now? What if he kisses me, there in the park, on my bench, out in the daylight in public and not hidden away under a bridge in the dark?

My heartbeats quicken at the thought of his lips on mine again, warm and possessive, and the throaty rasp of his voice.

As petrified as I am about my actions and the possible ramifications, it doesn’t diminish the other emotions fighting like hell to come to the surface. I like Evan. A lot. I’m undeniably attracted to him in ways I’ve never felt before. Whether I want it or not, he’s ignited a spark of intrigue in me, and I don’t think it’s going to extinguish anytime soon.

If anything, I feel it’s going to turn into a raging inferno that will burn ‘til the day I die.

I crawl out of bed, use the bathroom, and pull on my robe before I call the human resources manager at my office and leave a message that I have the flu and won’t be coming in to work.

With that out of the way, I heat water for tea in a mug in the microwave and pull out the yellow pages to search for a gynecologist in town. I then embark on the most awkward conversation of my life with a nurse about my “unexpected high-risk sexual experience.” Fifteen minutes later I end the call with shaking hands and an appointment two weeks from today for a full examination and testing.

The next two weeks are going to be torturous.

How does Ditra do this with multiple people and not go insane?

I’m never having sex again.

Not until I’m married, at least.

Never did I think my first time would be like this. But when I peel back the layers of fear, I’m left with a pretty wild experience with an amazingly talented and sexy man who tore through my shyness like a dagger slicing silk. I’m just not sure how I feel about myself or him or any of it and continue to see-saw between being completely appalled one minute and daydreaming about him the next.

There’s a knock on my door, and my mother enters my space before I can answer, which she has promised a hundred times she won’t do anymore to respect my privacy. Someday I’ll remember to lock the door that separates my living space from theirs.

“Why aren’t you at work?” She glances around my tiny living room as if something illegal might be happening. “It’s after nine.”

“I’m not feeling well,” I reply, not meeting her eyes and pulling my hair over to the front of my shoulder to hopefully cover the hickies and bite marks on my neck. “I called in sick.”

“Sweetheart, your boss will never take you seriously if you call in sick for every little thing. They’ll think you’re lazy and irresponsible.”

This is where I get my chronic worrying from. I love my mom, but she worries about everything under the sun.

“Mom, I have about a hundred sick days. This is only the second one I’ve taken since I started working there. I haven’t even used any of my vacation time.”

“Just be careful it doesn’t become a habit.” She eyes my teacup. “Do you need anything? Soup or tea? Toast? I can make you a tea with honey. That always makes you feel better.”

“I have tea, but I had to make a phone call first. After I drink it, I’m going back to bed for a little while. I didn’t sleep well last night. There’s a bug going around the office that I probably caught. That’s all.” I bounce the tea bag up and down in my mug by its paper tag.

She nods and reaches for the doorknob. “Okay. I’ll be home all day so let me know if you need anything.”

“Okay. I’m sure I’ll feel better once I get some sleep.”

She closes the door behind her before Archie can make a run for the upstairs, where he likes to climb the drapes in the dining room and make bizarre chirping noises at the squirrels in the backyard.

Too bad I can’t sleep for the next two weeks and just skip the fourteen days of worrying.

I’ve heard people can change suddenly, and maybe I have. My escapade with Evan under the bridge seems to have tilted me off my steady, boring axis, and I can’t stop thinking about it.

I lie on my bed longer than I care to admit, staring at the ceiling fan going round and round, and replay all the moments of last night in my head. My body quivers and heats with the memories. I loved every minute of it. The second his lips touched mine and we shared the same breath, I changed. I felt it.

I want more.

For the next two days, I call in, faking the flu. It’s not a total lie. I feel sicker than I’ve ever felt in my life. Sick with worry and sick with wondering if Evan is thinking about me, too. Because if he’s not, I think I’ll die of this sickness.

I’m tempted to call Ditra and spill it all to her, but I know if I do, she’ll tell me I’m being dramatic, congratulate me for finally breaking out of my shell, and then want to hear every detail from the length of his dick to how long my orgasm lasted to when I’m going to see him again. She’ll also want to meet him.

Ditra and I have been best friends forever. Literally. Our mothers grew up next door to each other and have always been best friends. They got pregnant at the same time, and they had Ditra and me a week apart. Back then, they did practically everything together, so we were together all the time and just naturally became best friends, too. But I still can’t bring myself to pick up the phone and tell her about Evan.

It’s not because I’m ashamed of him. I want to covet him. Savor him. Keep him my own little secret. If no one knows, then he’s just mine.