Page 62 of The Roommate Subtext

Yes, you may come.

He set the phone aside and leaned back against the headboard, fist flying over his length, letting his mind fill with thoughts of Rose tumbling over the edge; then he was coming with a rush of pleasure. He managed to stifle his groan as the orgasm overtook him.

After cleaning up as best as he could with some tissues, he checked his phone again, still getting his breathing under control.

Thank you, sir, she messaged. That was mind-blowing.

For me, too, he wrote. I wasn’t planning on this tonight, you know. I thought we were going to have a nice chat.

I know! Me too. I can’t help it. You started talking about all the kinky things you did with other people, and it makes me want more.

He was staring at her words on the screen, rereading them, when she sent another message.

I’ve never done anything like this, she wrote. I’ve never sexted or played with kink or pretended to be someone I’m not on the internet. It’s like I’m two different people and I don’t know how I feel about it.

I know what you mean, he replied. Do you think something like this can ever be more than this? It wasn’t clear, but she would know what he meant. He hit send, casting his message out to wherever she was in the city that night.

I want to think so, she replied. But maybe some things are better left as fantasy. Most real-life romances end in heartbreak. Acting otherwise is just a blind leap of faith.

A leap of faith. Blake was a trusting person about everything but this. Everything about this one part of himself that he’d never shown to anyone he was dating. Do you trust me? he asked.

A long pause while his message sat on read. He could picture her thinking about it, staring at the phone, wondering what to write.

I want to, she wrote.

Maybe that could be enough.

OK, he wrote. Here’s my leap of faith. I want to meet you.

Maggie peered out her bedroom door into the dark condo. Blake’s door was shut, no light coming out from underneath it, so he was probably asleep. She went to the bathroom to clean herself and her toys. She hadn’t intended to have sex with him again. Phone sex. Text-sex. Whatever it was they were having. But then he started spinning out his fantasy, and suddenly she was naked on her bed fucking herself and thinking of him.

Usually, she went into those chat sessions knowing exactly what she was in for. If they were playing, they were playing. If they were chatting, they were chatting. But tonight had blurred the distinction. They had been talking about serious topics, even somewhat personal topics, but then they’d ended up talking about sex. She was pretty sure she’d been the one to redirect. Whether it was out of a conscious desire to fool around with him again, or some other desire not to talk about personal things, it had happened.

And now, she’d made plans to meet him.

It would have been smarter to say no, and even smarter to make tonight their last night chatting … but she couldn’t deny their connection, so she’d said yes even though it was a bad idea. They’d set a date for Monday, the least romantic day of the week, and she’d meet him at a restaurant, in a public place, instead of blindfolded in a hotel room (although she’d halfheartedly considered it).

Now that she’d made the date, though, Chauvel loomed in her thoughts. Always Chauvel, always his odious deal between them; this deal she couldn’t escape without upending her whole life.

She stared at herself in the mirror for a few minutes after washing up. Her reflection provided no answers. She was looking at a woman who was in over her head and about to swim deeper.

Maybe she could tell the Pimpernel the truth. She’d written the article draft, yes, but she’d had little choice. And the article wasn’t damning in any way. It didn’t reveal his identity. It wouldn’t hurt his book sales; it might even help. She was bringing him free publicity. Maybe if she explained her situation, he would understand and forgive her.

The spark of hope faded. If Chauvel found out she was seeing the Pimpernel, he would surely pull back all his favors. It wasn’t hard to guess he’d hold a grudge.

If only she’d met the Pimpernel on her own terms. Who knows where they would end up?

But that wasn’t her life. She’d taken the deal, and her time with the Pimpernel had an expiration date. Blake’s door was still closed when Maggie returned to her room. He had no idea about everything that had been happening in his condo. And Blake was a good guy. He treated her well. He was attractive, and funny, and smart, not to mention exceedingly polite, and she wasn’t an idiot: she could recognize the chemistry between them for what it was. Maybe if she wasn’t hung up on the Pimpernel, she could let herself test the waters with Blake.

But she was hung up on the Pimpernel, and she’d made Monday night plans.

At least when it all blew up, she’d have one night to remember.

FOURTEEN

Blake shouldn’t be nervous. He’d given talks in front of crowds before. Sure, he’d been at this job for less than a year, but he knew what he was doing. He had prepared not only his speech but also his small talk, mentally pocketing a few neutral topics so he didn’t have to keep falling back on the weather. But as he tied his bowtie, he couldn’t deny that his hands were less steady than usual.

“You know how to tie a bowtie.” Maggie’s voice came from the doorway, but he was too focused on his task to turn around.