Page 17 of The Summer of ’98

After the night I’d had, I would gladly never consume a drop of alcohol ever again. I felt terrible, I was sure that I looked terrible, and I’d made a total fool of myself.

“Your father and I are going to church,” Eleanor said as she headed back toward the door. “I’ll bring lunch home.”

She left, leaving the door open. Leroy turned back around to face me and smiled. “That could have been worse. Right?”

“So much worse. Your mom is a godsend.”

“She’s not bad.”

Leroy stretched his hands above his head and yawned. His arms flexed and, phew, I might have been lacking brain function at that moment, but I still seemed to be capable of thinking very vivid thoughts.

“I could use a shower,” I murmured, still salivating over his toned, taut arms and shoulders.

“Of course. There are a couple of towels in there waiting for you,” he stood up and offered me a hand.

“Do you think I’m a mess?” I asked with a small voice as he pulled me up. Being on my feet was harder than I thought it would be, and Leroy kept me upright with his arm around my waist.

“No. I don’t think that,” he laughed as we went to the bathroom. “You were having fun. Nothing wrong with that.”

I felt grateful for his understanding. It would have been fair of him to be embarrassed or disappointed in me for being so ridiculous last night. But without failure, he had been tender and gentle and had taken care of me throughout it all.

He told me that he was going to shower downstairs and would be back in half an hour or so. I could easily have spent that much time in the warm water, washing off the alcohol and regret. But I didn’t want to keep him waiting. I washed up as fast as I could, scrubbing with the loofah, hoping it might physically remove the humiliation that I felt over everything that had happened.

After the shower, I stood in front of the mirror, a towel twisted around my hair and my skincare products laid out on the vanity. Each step—the cleanser, the toner, the moisturizer, and sunscreen, each applied in gentle upward motions—aided in feeling clean and relaxed. My soft cotton shorts and camisole smelled like home when I slipped them on, and I went back to the spare bedroom feeling a bit more alive.

Leroy returned to my room in a fresh set of clothes half an hour later, as he said he would. His hair still sat a little damp, the strands sticking to his forehead as he sauntered in wearing a pair of sweats and a muscle shirt.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Much.”

“I figured you wouldn’t be up for a lot today,” he said, walking toward me, closing the distance as he encircled his arms around my waist. I subtly inhaled his fresh, masculine scent and rested my hands on his shoulders. “But Eric just phoned and asked if I could coach his baby brother’s flag football practice this afternoon. He’s got a wicked hangover apparently.”

“Ooh,” I laughed. “Sounds like it’s not the first time?”

“It’s not. But no sweat. I don’t mind helping. Is that cool? You can hang back if you’re not up for it?”

“No, no. I’ll come.”

He pulled me in at the waist, his sights settling on my mouth. “I’d rather we were staying in, though. Just the two of us.”

I arched into him. “Me too.”

“I can’t stop thinking about our night together last month,” he murmured, leaning in a little closer. “Your body, your screams, your—”

His words were cut off as he swallowed, and his breathing became deeper. I couldn’t handle what happened to me when he spoke like that. His words did wild things to me—it had been bad enough when it was on the phone, but now, pairing it with the lust in his gaze . . . I was a goner.

I didn’t wait another moment for him to make the first move I tiptoed up and kissed him. His hand tightened on my back, his fingers dragging inwards as he bunched the camisole in his grip. He pushed his tongue against mine and his hands moved with purpose, traveling the curves of my frame. His touch made me quiver and I moaned into his intoxicating mouth. He was the perfect hangover cure.

He walked us toward the bed and my stomach felt like it was doing backflips as he pushed me down, never disconnecting our kiss, never removing his hands, never faltering. He kept one hand beside my head, kneeling between my legs as his free hand danced over the bare skin of my midriff. He slipped a hand under the material of the cami and dug his fingertips into my waist.

“Are you feeling okay?” he murmured, pecking me between his words so that he could continue kissing me. He dragged his mouth downwards, nipping and sucking at the skin on my neck. I remembered that I was meant to be answering a question, but I could barely remember my own name.

“I’m fine,” I answered with a gasp.

“Would you like me to touch you?”

I moaned as his hand grazed my shorts between my legs. “Yes, please.”

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