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.