Page 33 of The First Kind of Love
The darkened glare in his eyes is loaded with desire, the twitch of his arm indicating that both of our nakedness seems to be an unresolvable problem.
Hesitancy colors my tone. “I…”
Fulton brushes his thumb over my cheek. “There’re no words to describe what you do to me, Sunshine. None. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing clothes or not. You don’t just distract me—you’re under my fucking skin, okay?”
Disbelief or an untimely joke perches on the tip of my tongue, but it never takes flight. There’s a knock at the door, followed by a deep voice that announces room service, and it redirects the interrogation lamp that was previously boring a hole into my skull.
Fulton lights up. “Oh, the food’s here. I ordered a little bit of everything while you were in the bathroom. Can you grab it? I’ll be in and out of the shower, and then we can eat together.”
I’m about to nod before Fulton darts forward to plant a kiss on my cheek, then races his bare ass into the bathroom with a holler of gratitude. With my brain half-melted from whatever sexy staring contest we were having, I walk over to the partition and glance out the peephole, making sure the coast is clear.
I wrench open the door to grant a small unloading space, then I start dragging the numerous dishes and trays stacked in the hallway into our room. Jesus. Fulton must’ve ordered the entire dinner menu.
As I begin stockpiling the goods, a thirst-quenching bottle of champagne sits just out of my reach, and I struggle to grab it without exposing myself to any of our floormates. Hand on my tits, a nice draft fluttering beneath the towel, I’m just out of the door’s radius.
“Stupid drink,” I mutter under my breath, launching myself further before making contact with the neck of the bottle, and I’m about to revel in myah-hamoment when the unmistakable sound of a slam echoes behind me.
When I look back, the bottom of my towel’s been caught in the partition, and a squeal bursts out of me.No, no, no! Oh, no. Please. Not me. Not like this.
My cotton defense falls to the ground humiliatingly, baring my naked body for the entire world to see, and the fact that I’m on my hands and knees right now doesn’t make this look any better. Hyperventilating, I yank fruitlessly on one end of the towel while simultaneously keeping my lady bits hidden.
Oh my God. Am I going to get arrested for indecent exposure? I’ve never gone to jail before. I’m a good person! Do you know what they do to people like me in jail? I’m going to get shanked, and I have an irrational fear of getting stabbed!
The floor is unoccupied, but who knows when someone’s bound to step out of the elevator. I don’t have my phone with me, so I can’t call for help. I decide to try banging on the door to get Fulton’s attention, but the more incessant my hits become, the greater the chance of garneringunwantedattention. After the eighth desperate knock, I realize the possibility of Fulton hearing me over the running water and coming to my rescue is slim to none.
I’m naked and afraid.
I should’ve left the stupid champagne bottle. I should’ve put clothes on before going outside like a normal person. I’m going to kill myself. I’m going to swan dive off this floor in nothing but my birthday suit.
And then…it happens. The elevator dings.
AHHH!
I desert my towel, army-crawl toward the nearest piece of furniture that can serve as a shield, and pray that whoever is coming down the hall walks straight by my hiding place none the wiser.
I can’t believe this. I just had the best orgasm of my life, and now I’m squeezing myself behind an old, disgusting vending machine so I don’t accidentally flash someone. This is all Fulton’s fault. If I get out of this without traumatizing an innocent child, I’m going to strangle him. And not in the sexy way!
A medley of voices and the acoustics of footfalls grow louder from around the corner, and I’m covering my chest and privates like these strangers are going to use their superhuman X-ray vision to see through my grease-stained sanctuary.
Quivering from the cold and the imminent exposure, anxiety curdles in my stomach as I weather the eye of the stormthatFultonleft me in. With bated breath, I wait until the conversation passes me and trails down the hall before sailing out of my hearing range completely.
ThankGod.
Fulton can’t take that long of a shower, right? I’m sure he’ll be done soon, notice I’m missing, and come looking for me. I’ll be fine. All I have to do is just…stay here. And hope that the security cameras on this floor don’t work anymore.
So I overestimate Fulton’s shower tolerance, wait an embarrassingly long time with my knees glued to my chest, and try to conserve as much heat as possible while freezing my literal ass off.
“I shouldn’t have—hic—had that fifth martini,” a girl hiccups, the stumble of her gait as loud as landmines while she lumbers down the hallway.
“You just need to sleep it off,” a second female voice interjects, her inflection matching that of an exhausted parent trying to compromise with a rambunctious toddler.
“No, I need…ooh, I needthat!”
A cold sweat breaks out over my nape, the thudding of her footsteps striking a chord of panic within me, and it’s not long before I feel the vending machine shake in response to the too-drunk-to-function beast trying to uproot it. I cringe, shrinking further into myself, bargaining with whatever omnipotent powers are watching over me to let her pass without uncovering my feeble body.
“Chocolate. I want…a lot of it,” she slurs, banging her fists a few times on the glass for good measure.
While I suffer in silence—trying to decide if I should bequeath this good Samaritan with a quest to get me back inside—my humiliation mutates into bone-deep relief when I hear those glorious, magic words.
