Page 48 of Dirty Like Me
Tequila had never been my friend.
I ran the water in the sink, just a trickle so it wouldn’t make noise, splashed some on my face and downed several glasses of it.
I pulled on my panties, shakily, stopping to grip the counter at intervals.
God. What a mess.
What the hell did I think I was doing? Clearly I was in way over my head here. I’d spent the better part of the last two years in a virtual cave; I could barely handle a night out with Devi and a few pitchers of sangria, much less Jesse Mayes and his rock star friends.
As I stood with my eyes closed, I felt his arm around me. A memory of last night, his hard body warm against mine, his hot lips brushing my ear.You choose who you are out there, Katie. Who you want to be for them. You give what you want to give.And then his lips on my neck.Who you are in here… you choose that, too.
Yeah, I chose.
I chose to be a lippy flirt.
I opened my eyes and took in my reflection, naked but for my black panties, and cringed as the memory came. Walking over to the bed closest to him, all bravado and boozy courage.
You’re sleeping over here, then I am too. I’m gonna fake girlfriend the shit out of this joint.
Up to you, babe.
Then he proceeded to undress. That part I remembered.
Vividly.
Because I got an eyeful of naked Jesse Mayes.
Apparently he had no qualms about stripping down in front of me. Not surprising, really, for a guy who’d texted me a picture of his dick only hours before. A guy who grinded me to near-orgasm while a camera crew recorded every simulated thrust and very real gasp.
The guy had no shame.
I busied myself finger-combing my hair and wiping the raccoon makeup from under my eyes. Thank God I’d had the sense to remove my disposable contacts before I passed out, but I really could’ve come more prepared. A toothbrush and some powder foundation would do wonders right now.
Was that a bloodyhickeyon my neck?
Jesus.
More fragments of the night came back. Like telling him to put his dick back in his pants, when the ship had already sailed on that, since his jeans were on the floor. Did the man not wear underwear? And I must’ve been blatantly checking him out, because I could recall every detail of his gorgeous body. The long, lean lines of his torso. The muscles that bunched in his chest, his rippling abs, his thick biceps and long, muscular thighs as he pulled back the covers, tossed them on the floor, and flopped onto the bed.
Always sleep naked, sugar.
He’d reclined there, the sheet haphazardly over a leg, like he’d meant to cover up but didn’t, his superb cock on full display, half-hard. He tossed his right arm over his eyes, showing off the sexy tattoo on his forearm, and appeared to be going to sleep.
But apparently I didn’t want him to sleep. Hence my bull-headed response.
Fine. If you’re sleeping naked, I am too.
And hence my clothes ending up all over the room.
I scowled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and stood up straight, hoping I at least looked hot while I was making an ass of myself. I put on my bra and squeezed myself back into the red dress; anyone who saw me this morning would know it was the same dress I’d worn last night. This was not a Sunday morning dress. It was a Saturday night dress.
A walk of shame dress.
The kind of dress a stupid girl stripped off in front of a rock star, apparently.
Because I had.
Stripped.
