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I shuffle to the bathroom while pretending it doesn’t feel like I’m still straddling a fencepost and manage to stumble into the tub. As much as I want to collapse into the warm embrace of a bath, I opt for switching on the showerhead instead. If I sit down right now, I’m not getting out again before New Year.
His semen is everywhere. Crusting down my inner thighs, matting my pubic hair, and streaked across my belly. Smeared across my butt and all the way up my lower back. I don’t remember him coming anywhere but deep inside, but perhaps this is just what happens when your guy overfills you, then keeps pumping. Pure physics.
Not "your guy," Eve. Get it together.
There is nothing dignified about how I have to lean against the cold tiles and carefully—ow, socarefully—spread my labia with two fingers, then aim the showerhead up to rinse out my poor vagina. And oh, ew, yeah, he definitely depositedeverythinginside of me. The water softens the cream that has, for lack of better wording, jellied up there, and I stare in faint disbelief at the rivers of white semen rolling down my thighs and puddling in the tub around the drain. I should probably be more grossed out, but honestly, all I can think about is how if he hadn’t given me that Plan B, I’d absolutely, one hundred percent be pregnant right now. I don’t care what biology says about ovulation—there’s no way in hell any woman’s womb could resist that amount of semen.
“What a merry Christmas present that would have been,” I mutter. I mean for it to come out snarky, but my heart gives an odd sort of spasm.Wow.Ireallyneed to burn through this oxytocin high,stat.
* * *
I’m stillbeyond sore after the shower, but I pull on my plaid PJs and fluffy slippers with only a little difficulty. The warm water’s soothed my exhausted body enough that I can manage the stairs, so long as I walk gingerly.
Caffeine. I need caffeine.
I’m not prepared for the waft of vanilla, cinnamon, and coffee that greets me the moment I step into my small kitchen.
I flick on the lights and blink in confusion at the tray of cookies on my butcher block. They definitely weren’t there when I came home yesterday. A glance at my coffee machine reveals a warm pot waiting for me.
He… made me coffee before he left? And… went out to buy cookies? Where can you even get cookies Christmas morning?
I pick up one of the heart-shaped ones and squint at it in confusion. It’s perfectly decorated with swirls of sugar glazing and dusted with cinnamon. It looks like it comes from a high-end bakery, perhaps even Le Gâteau. I’ve been drooling over their window display all through December, but I only ever treat myself to one of their cakes on my birthday, because holy wow, do they charge an arm and a leg for a bit of sugary perfection.
I bite into the heart and hum a note of pure bliss. Definitely Le Gâteau. It’s so damn good I don’t even care if other adults don’t have sugar first-thing. It’s Christmas, and honestly, if there was ever a day I’d earned cookies for breakfast, it’s today.
I shuffle over to my coffee machine and notice a small blister pack next to a note. A closer look reveals it’s penicillin. The note is typed on thick, expensive paper.
If you are sensitive to urinary tract infections, have this with food and a glass of water. You will not need to worry about sexually transmitted diseases.
I stare at the note. It’styped.He’s brought this from home. Just like he brought silk scarves so I wouldn’t hurt myself while struggling, he’s not only brought penicillin to prevent a sex-induced UTI, but also a prepared note with instructions on how to take it. I guess it goes with the Plan B.
I scoff in amused disbelief—probably not the sanest reaction, but oh well—and pour myself a mug of coffee. It’s still warm, but it tastes like it was made hours ago.
I grimace and sip it anyway. How long have I been asleep?
A look at my microwave tells me it’s nearly one p.m. I don’t know what time he finally had enough and untied me, but I guess it’s not that odd that I’ve slept in. I’m still worn to the marrow of my bones from the marathon ravaging.
I'm kinda relieved I opted for the sad Christmas Dinner for One microwave meal, or my holiday meal would consist of nothing but Le Gateau cookies. Not that that’s the worst Christmas a girl can have…
I move to my fridge and open it to stare at the microwave dinner. An overwhelming sense of loneliness washes over me at the sight of the tin foiled sadness.
What the crap?
I wrap my arms around myself and push down the ridiculouslongingthat creeps up from the deepest recesses of my mind.Nope.Not going to so much as entertain that.
What in the world did you expect, Eve? Christmas dinner with the guy who broke into your home and paid you to fuck?
I close the fridge and return to the plate of cookies, intent on scarfing down at least three more with my coffee and forget about my hormones’ insane influence on my brain, when a knock on my front door makes me jump.
FIFTEEN
STUFFED LITTLE TURKEY
Is it him?
I want to smack myself for the way my hearts speeds up at that thought. If it was, I should befrightened,not excitedly waddling to the door, coffee mug and cookie still in hand.
The frosted glass does not reveal a large, black-clad alpha. Instead I spy a woman around my own age, bundled up in a wooly scarf, hat, and mittens. She’s carrying what looks to be several paper grocery bags in both hands and under each arm, squeezed tight to her body.
