So, no, I haven’t moved from the couch where my mom and Hailey left me when they went shopping for home supplies.
But after last night, shopping holds zero appeal.
I’m equally exhausted and restless, buzzing with adrenaline I can’t shake.
Besides, Hailey knows my taste, and she cares a lot more about the little things than I ever could. My little sister loves details and is always cataloging useless pieces of knowledge in her brain for future use.
My mom clucks her tongue. “You do realize you’re moving in less than a week, don’t you?”
“Everything’s in storage. What’s there to do?” Hailey and I had been renting a place on Washington and our lease was up, so we’re staying with our parents until the move. “It’s been proven by medical science that relaxing is just as important as doing.”
“I suppose I can’t argue with that.” She tucks a lock of her expertly highlighted chestnut lob behind her ear. “Where’s your father?”
“Nana needed him to open her grocery jars, and then he said he was going to go to the nursery to get a jump on planting.” I crane my neck to look at Hailey’s purchases. “What did you buy?”
She picks up the bag and spills an entire store of office supplies across the kitchen table, her sky-blue eyes gleaming with twisted anticipation. “I can’t wait to organize.”
Some might say that Hailey, who outwardly looks like a sweet little cupcake in her powder-blue tee, is pathological about her office supplies. She has stacks of journals, boxes of multicolored pens, pencils, markers, sticky notes, index cards, and all types of various clips. She claims it’s a writer thing.
“I can’t wait for the rainbow of brightly colored notes that make the shower scene in Psycho look like it was written by a kindergartener to be plastered all over the bathroom mirror.” I gesture toward the flat-screen with the remote. “Speaking of weirdos, this guy is going to meet the love of his life in some remote, third-world village and is so paranoid about snakes slithering up his dick he’s wearing three condoms.”
Obviously, this is the perfect time for my tall, silver-blond, handsome father to stroll on in. Walking into the room at the worst time is Ron Moore’s special talent in life.
I open my mouth to provide context, but he holds up his hands. “I don’t want to know.”
“It wasn’t me.” I mean, sure, last night I’d used countless numbers of condoms, but my dad doesn’t know about that.
Thinking of condoms has me thinking about sex and how I’d thought I’d known what good sex was. I’m not exactly a shy, retiring type, so I always get what’s mine.
If the guy sucks in bed, I’m still getting an orgasm. If I’m forced to take care of it myself and it bruises his ego, I consider it character-building. Something his future partners will thank me for.
But the man from the bar had needed no such instructions.
No, he’d taken fucking to a whole new level.
I could live with the phenomenal sex, but it had gone beyond that.
He’d tapped into all my secret desires and kinks.
He’d gotten past my guard.
I’d talked to him. Not about the details of my life, but about myself.
Now I’m ruined for all other men.
My stomach jumps at a flashback of his midnight eyes boring into me, like he could see every inch of me inside and out.
Now I feel—I cringe—emotional.
He’s despicable.
I would kill to see him again.
I’m jonesing for him.
Preoccupied by thoughts of him.
The amount of time I’ve expended reliving every second I spent with him is humiliating.