Flashbacks.
So many flashbacks. Against the window, on the desk, sitting on the edge of the bed, me straddling him, Jack above me. Him gazing down at me. His light chuckles as I stroked his back. His words. His kisses. And then the explosive sex all over again—in the shower, against the bathroom door, back in this bed. I reach up and feel my damp hair, then clench my thighs, wincing at the soreness.
No condom.
What the hell have I done? He’s a stranger. A complete stranger. The fact that Jack seemed like anything but a stranger the whole time we were exploring each other is forgotten now. The connection is lost amid a sea of regret.
A quick glimpse at the bedside clock tells me it’s 4:15. The sun is on its way up.
I shuffle as quietly as a mouse to the edge of the bed and search the floor in the dim light for my dress, finding it by the window. I tiptoe across the carpet, tense from top to toe, which isn’t helping my achy muscles. Jesus, I feel like I’ve been hit by a fucking bus. I make quick work of wriggling into my dress, slipping my feet into my heels and swiping up my underwear and bag.
Then, like I might be struck down by lightning if I make even the tiniest of sounds, I slip out of the room—the room Jack paid for so we could fuck—cringing as I ease the door closed. I run down the corridor to the lift like a madwoman and hit the call button, and when the doors to the lift open, I’m hit with more flashbacks. I’m pressed against the back wall, he’s kissing me with a crazy passion, and my face is pure ecstasy.
I slam a lid on those thoughts and dive into the lift.
I fucked a fucking stranger.
*
I let myself into my flat and put myself straight in the shower. The hot water cleaning away the evidence of my careless encounter is only a mild comfort. I can’t wash my mind of the reminders. Doubt I ever will. My muscles protest my every move as I soap my body over and over, letting the water pound down harshly, hotter than I’d usually tolerate it.
Against the window. His huge, hard body touching me everywhere.
I shake my head and soap harder, concentrating on my obsessive need to scrub myself until I bleed. I feel dirty. Ashamed of myself for being so careless. But worse, I feel overcome by the connection we shared, the feelings still lingering, like he could be standing here in the shower with me now.
On the desk. The look in his gray eyes.
I bunch the sponge in my fist and grit my teeth, throwing it to the shower floor before grabbing the shampoo and squirting some in my hand. My fingers go into my hair and lather, hard, fast, and furiously.
Hard, fast, and furiously. The feel of him taking me so powerfully.
I shout and let my back fall against the wall, my hurt muscles folding and taking me down to the shower floor. I just sit there and relive every single crazy, intense second I had with Jack as I stare up at the showerhead pouring water down on me. I can only hope that once I’ve lived the whole scene from beginning to end, my mind will relent and be fulfilled enough to let me forget about Jack. Forget about the man who momentarily steered me off course from real life.
*
I recognize these sheets. The feel, the smell. I roll over, hissing as I go. The aches just seem to be getting worse. My phone tells me it’s 9:30. After torturing myself in my shower with hot water and memories, I clambered into bed and drifted off to sleep, though my dreams gave me no respite. I saw his gray eyes, heard his velvet voice, felt his soft lips and that body made for sinful things. Just a one-night stand. It was just a one-night stand.
A loud crash sounds from the kitchen, and I bolt upright.
“Hello?” I jump out of bed and throw on a T-shirt.
“Damn!” Micky’s curse calms me a little, but it also makes me wonder. What’s he doing here this early on a Sunday? I make tracks to the kitchen and find him kneeling on the floor, sweeping up coffee grounds. In his boxers.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping over the mess to grab him the dustpan.
“This is why I do Starbucks,” he grumbles, looking up at me. His man-bun is no more, his shoulder-length blond hair a messy mop. He narrows a suspicious eye on me from his crouched position, humming to himself. “What time did you get in, you dirty stopout?”
I start to back away, stray coffee crunching under my feet as I go. “Um…” I gulp and look over my shoulder, feeling and looking all kinds of guilty. “Who’s that on the couch?” I blurt incredulously, seeing movement coming from under a pile of blankets in the lounge. I swing around to find Micky now looking as guilty as I expect I was a moment ago.
“Ah…well…you see…” He stands and points the dustpan brush at me, thinking hard.
“I gave you a spare key for emergencies!” I snap, annoyed. “Getting your leg over isn’t an emergency!”
“I came here to make sure you got home safely!” he fires back, puffy-chested. “So what time did you get in?”
I do a quick calculation in my head. I piled them all in a taxi at 12:30. It would have taken half an hour to get here. Micky and Lizzy were so drunk; I can’t imagine they were at it for…
My thoughts halt right there. “Lizzy!” I screech, swinging around. Her head pops up from beneath the blankets, her hair a crazy mess, her eyes squinting.
“Hey,” she croaks, before quickly diving back under the covers to hide.
I grit my teeth and slowly turn back toward my slag of a friend, scowling real hard at him. He looks sheepish. He should. “You arsehole.”
“You didn’t care so much last night!” he protests, throwing his half-naked body back to the kitchen floor and sweeping up some more granules. “Because you were too busy being bent over a bar!” He tosses me a disgusted look and I wilt on the spot, evading his accusing eyes. “Are you gonna tell me what time you got in or what?”
“Two,” I lie, stomping over to the cupboard and yanking it open, pulling down a mug—the biggest I can find.
“I was awake at two.”
“Three, then. I can’t remember. And I don’t think you’re in any position to pass judgment,” I point out huffily, flicking the kettle on.
“I’m a bloke, Annie. I can take care of myself. You didn’t have a clue who he was.”
“I’m back in one piece, aren’t I? And I didn’t see you rushing to stop me. Oh no! Because you were too intent on getting your end away with Lizzy. Bloody Lizzy!”
“Yes?” Her head appears from beneath the blankets, her eyes blinking back the sleep.
“Nothing!” we both shout, making her slink back under, her tail between her legs.
“She’s just split up with Jason! A flirt, yes, but—”
“We were pissed.” Micky levels an annoyed look on me. I match it as I pass him and shut the kitchen door, my hand curled tightly around the handle of my empty coffee mug. I’m shaking and, now that I’ve stopped shouting, I’m hurting again. Everywhere. Aching like a bitch.