Page 54 of Exposed

“But we’re here.” I can’t take it another moment. Her talk of being exposed for who you really are hits me in a place I rarely think about anymore. “That means I didn’t let you walk away from me that night. Because I can tell you without a doubt, I would’ve chased you to the ends of the earth.”

“You didn’t have to chase me.” Her voice isn’t a whisper, but it is low and smooth. “In the bright lights, you stood from your stool at the bar and took my face in your strong hands for the first time and kissed me.”

“That,” I emphasize, “sounds like something I would do.”

“It was the best kiss of my life. It was new and full of promise, even though whatever connection we had was going nowhere since you were moving to Panama, and I lived in small-town America. So when you begged me not to end the night, there was no way I could leave.”

I bring my other hand to her face and cup her cheek. “Did I beg hard enough?”

“You did.” This time her words are a whisper.

A whispered dream.

I lick my lips.

Then her tone turns matter of fact. “We had one night.”

“Whoa.” I frown. “That’s it?”

I want more.

No, I fucking need more.

I need details and orgasms and positions and morning sex.

I need follow up sex in the shower. A little kink sprinkled in for fun wouldn’t hurt.

I need to know if it was fast and rough or slow and carnal.

Because I need it to be both, dammit.

But she offers me nothing.

Not one scene.

Not even goodbye sex.

My brain picks up where she left off like a highlight reel. I prefer her storytelling, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Together, we were fucking amazing. The hottest sex I’ve ever had. That fucking hotel room will never be the same.

My thoughts skid to a quick stop when she interrupts my fictional utopia. “The timing was bad.”

“That’s it?” I bite. “There’s no fucking way. I’d never let you go after a night like that.”

What can I say? There was even background music. Music mixed with bodies slapping, and her moans were the highlight.

She shrugs. “But you did. You had Panama. I couldn’t leave my mother—I was all she had. It doesn’t matter how much I’ve always wanted to see the world and live in a city with its own heartbeat—I couldn’t leave.”

“But I have a fuckload of money. I could’ve kept in touch. What the hell, Goldie. I was just thinking you were the best storyteller ever, but I take that back. I want a different ending.”

Her smile turns sly. “But if I were with you while I was at The Pink, they would’ve known about you.”

Shit. She’s right.

And this is fictional.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

---