Good For You
Which brings me to the other thing I don’t tel her. If I didn’t know Dori, her actions in the club would have persuaded me to believe that she might not be as innocent as I assumed. What happened between the club and my bed left little doubt.
There was no way I could deliver her home fal ing-down-drunk to her pastor father, and I had no idea where to take her besides home with me. In the car, she revived somewhat, her head nestled against my shoulder. Her hands began wandering over my chest, grazing over and under my shirt, caressing lazy orbits around every susceptible part of me she could reach. I thought she would drive me insane by the time we arrived home.
As I carried her up the back staircase to my room, she never stopped torturing me. When I set her down, she looped her arms around my neck and started kissing me, open-mouthed and unrestrained, arching her body into mine. I couldn’t help responding, pul ing her up hard against me, exploring her mouth with my tongue, rediscovering the feel of her with palms and fingertips. We fel onto the bed, kicking off shoes, and I roughly dragged her on top of me.
Her skirt was bunched around her hips and my hands gripped her thighs, and she was practical y spil ing out of her deep V-neck top as she hovered over me, kissing me.
When her hand found the button fly of my jeans and tugged it open, I grabbed her wrists and choked out her name. “Dori.” She froze and looked at me, her dark, dark eyes glazed over and her lips swol en and wet. I’m getting hard now just thinking about how she looked in that moment. How I did what I did next, I have no idea. “Dori, sleep.”
She looked bewildered. “You don’t want me?” Her voice broke mid-sentence.
I groaned. “Yes, I absolutely do. But you don’t want this.” She blinked. “I don’t?”
“No.”
A smal frown creased her brow. “Oh.”
Without another word, she lay down, curved against me and fel sleep. Her acquiescence was so quick I was almost insulted. I don’t know how long I lay there, wondering what kind of strung-out loser I’d turned into to refuse what she’d offered, even if she was unquestionably under the influence.
It felt irrational to let her sleep—to order her to sleep—
rather than turn her onto her back and run my hands and mouth over her until she was so hot for me she was begging me to finish what we’d started.
Once I’d suppressed the desire to coax her awake and to hel with my moral dilemma, I draped an arm over her abdomen and thought about what she’d done to me before she dozed off. Nothing we’d done was new for her… and I sensed that we hadn’t reached the limit of her experience.
I don’t know this Dori. Something happened between last night and the night I kissed her for what I thought was the last time and left her—sweet, respectable and tough as nails—standing in the middle of her parents’ sidewalk. I don’t know why she was at that club, dressed like a girl hunting for a hookup and drinking like her goal was oblivion, and I sure as shit don’t know what she was doing leaving with that guy.
Al I know is—I have to find out.
I left her alone in the bathroom, wearing a towel and an unintel igible expression. She isn’t angry and she isn’t happy. Beyond that, I can’t say. I hear her moving around, the faucet turning on and off. I think of that silky pink bra, imagine how she would have looked five minutes ago in my shower, hear the blow dryer switch on, think of her in that towel. Imagine it fal ing to the ground.
Shit.
My agent sent a new batch of partial scripts a couple of days ago. Sitting on the unmade bed reminds me of last night, so I move to the club chair by the corner window and read through the scripts until I realize I’m not actual y absorbing anything I’m reading. Closing the laptop, I set it on the floor, hook my legs over one cushioned chair arm and lean back against the other. Arms folded behind my head, eyes on the bathroom door, I wait for her to emerge.
*** *** ***
Dori
I feel strange dressing without any underwear, but at least I’m clean, and the clothes are soft and loose enough to be comfortable going without.
The cabinet Reid indicated is like a luxury beauty supply store, crammed with salon hair products, lotions, packaged toothbrushes and razors. Reid’s careful detangling left my hair in damp waves, so I blow-dry it a bit and then leave it to air-dry. I fasten and unfasten the tiny snaps on the blue over-shirt, final y settling on leaving a little of the soft white tank exposed at the top. One last look in the mirror, and then another, and then I’m doing little more than stal ing.
When I emerge from the bathroom, he speaks from across the room, calm and low, like he’s trying not to startle me. “My mom basical y has toddler feet, so her shoes won’t fit you. I sent Maya out to get you something. She’l be back soon.” He unfolds himself from the chair and moves towards me so sensual y a runway model would be jealous.
I frown. “Get me—shoes, you mean? As in b u y me shoes?”
He shrugs. “Do you feel hungry? I think you should eat something, even if you can’t stomach much yet.” He takes something, even if you can’t stomach much yet.” He takes my hand as he reaches me, as though I’m a blind girl in an unknown place, and I need to be conducted through rooms, doorways and hal s. “Let’s see if anything in the kitchen tempts you.”
As we move through the main part of the house, I’m in awe of the luxury he can’t help but take for granted.
Everything is refined and lovely, from the art on the wal s to the lighting to the cool marble floors between islands of plush rugs. There are no cracks in these wal s to camouflage with paint or plants, no worn flooring, no yard-sale furniture. The electronics are big and intimidating, speakers and components inset into wal s. He keeps my hand in his, which is good because otherwise I would probably walk into a wal or a post while gawking.