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She’s not going to like this conversation, but if I’m not running, she’s not running either.
21
ALEXIS
“Not a big deal,” he says with that deceptive calmness I know to be wary of. “The twenty-first-century woman who clung to her cherry for twenty-three years claims it’s not a big deal.”
He cradles my face in his big hands and forces me to meet his gaze. “It’s a fucking big deal. So unusual, I bet they’d love to do a Netflix special about it.”
I swat his hands away. “Technically, you’re incorrect. A sleek pink vibrator with a curved shaft popped it years ago. I hope Netflix isn’t too disappointed.”
He scowls at me. “It’s not my business why you haven’t had sex. But you’re not doing this, Angel. You’re not going to act like giving up your virginity is nothing. If it wasn’t a big deal to you, why didn’t you just hand it over to some bloke in a bar?”
I ball my hands tight so I don’t slap him in the face like he deserves.
“Sex means many things. Just because I haven’t had one kind doesn’t mean I haven’t enjoyed other kinds. Don’t you worry. I did plenty of things with blokes in bars.”
He grabs my arms. “You. Are. Not. Doing. This. I won’t allow it.”
I don’t want to fight with him. It’s bad enough the moment I fantasized about has turned out to be a nightmare. I sigh. “What do you want me to say, Rafael?”
“I don’t believe for one second that it meant nothing to you. I already told you I don’t care why. You don’t owe anyone an explanation—certainly not me. But stop acting like a bratty teenager who got called out on her bullshit.”
A giant wave of embarrassment washes over me. I feel too young, and ridiculously unsexy. Whatever mood there was when he stepped into the shower is gone. I’ve had sex before—just not peen-in-the-V sex, and the vibrator is real—although I much prefer it near my clit, so it’s been inside only a few times. Still, I thought I could pull it off so that he would never be the wiser. But that giant cock of his is so much healthier than my delicate pink vibrator.
I need to swallow my pride and own the decision I made. A bad decision, as it turns out.
“I should have told you.” Because the truth couldn’t have possibly been more embarrassing than this.
Pride is a big dry turd that I choke on while I try to force it down, and my voice strains as I admit the mistake. It’s the closest thing he’s getting to an apology. I’m not sorry. Maybe I will be tomorrow, or next week, but not yet.
Rafael slides his hands into my wet hair and presses his forehead to mine. “If you trusted me, I could have made it good for you.”
“I do trust you,” I whisper, and it’s largely true. Just not about this. Rafael dates women who are drop-dead gorgeous and sophisticated and sexy as hell. I didn’t want to come off like a teenage girl, unworldly and inexperienced, but in the end that’s exactly what happened.
Rafael pulls back, resting his fingers on my thighs. He’s sober, and I know he’s going to give me some bullshit line about how we can’t do this—how it was a mistake. He’s sorry. That’s what he’ll tell me, etching another crack in my soul.
His eyes are a muted blue, filled with concern. My mind begins to conjure all sorts of scenarios that might be going on in his head.
All of a sudden, he’s too close—and yet not close enough.
My brain refuses to engage in a drawn-out war with my heart and fires a warning shot that jolts me. I respond in the way that people have come to expect. “If you can trust me, I’ll make it good for you too.”
His shoulders shake before he throws back his head and laughs. It’s not a genuine laugh. There’s a measure of exasperation in it. “You’re killing me, Angel.”
“But what a way to go.” I slide my hands across his chest and down to where the towel meets his skin.
He places his hands over mine, rubbing his thumb across my fingers. “You still up for a little playtime?”
“You still want me?” It’s a needy question, even though I don’t allow desperation to color it. I hate myself for it, but I had to ask. I need an assurance that this isn’t some pity fuck. I’d never be able to face him again.
He takes hold of a small section of my hair and lets his fingers slide to the ends. “Always, Lexie. After I had a taste at the wedding, I haven’t stopped wanting you.”
A great sense of relief rains over me. Still, I close my eyes, trying to understand why a man who couldn’t stop wanting me avoided me like the plague. I don’t need the answer right now. That’s what I tell myself. I don’t need answers now. I need him.
“I’m going to my apartment to get condoms. I’ll just be a few minutes. Dry your hair while I’m gone.”
Not a condom, but condoms. Like he’ll be here for a while. That’s what a pathetic woman does. She holds on to every little thing that supports her dreams—her fantasies—even when she knows, deep down, the fairy tale ends without a happily ever after.
