Page 17 of Nathan

Nate pushes my legs together and opens the top two drawers. Encasing my ankles with elegant fingers, he places each of my feet into one of the drawers. The position leaves me laid bare and vulnerable, and I automatically try to cover myself with my skirt.

Nate stops me and, with a cautionary shake of his head, bunches my skirt around my hips once more. I find myself panting, breathless. He’s barely touched me, and I’m a hot mess.

He stands back, as though examining his handiwork and, with a nod of satisfaction, meets my wide-eyed gaze.

“Do you feel exposed, Dex?”

The honest answer comes easily. “Yes.”

He runs his tongue along the underside of his top teeth. “When you lie in bed at night, do you think of me? Do you touch yourself?”

Holy shit. How does he know?

My chin drops to my chest. This time, the words won’t come. I hadn’t expected him to… talk. I’d envisaged him undressing me, discarding his own clothes, and for the act itself to be over rather quickly. Even if it wasn’t, I assumed we’d be writhing on his bed right this second, our sweaty bodies colliding, twisting around one another, the sheets becoming damp beneath us as he ruined me. But this… conversation…

It’s unsettling.

“Pull your panties to the side. I want to see.”

I snap my head up. “Wh-what?”

“Your panties. Pull them to the side, Dex.”

I shake my head. This isn’t me. If Nate O’Reilly is into some weird, voyeuristic shit, I’m not the girl for him. Not even for one night.

“I-I can’t.”

Confusion flickers across his face. “Why not?”

My face burns yet again. “I just can’t. It’s not… it doesn’t feel right.”

His bewilderment deepens before his eyebrows rise up, wrinkling his forehead. “Please tell me you’re not a virgin.”

“No, I’m not,” I snap. Something about his attitude toward innocence irks me, spiking my anger, bringing me back for a moment. “What’s wrong with virgins, anyway?”

He ignores my question. “How many sexual partners have you had, Dex?”

I motion to jump down from the dresser, but he stops me, holding my knees in that wide-open position, pushing down on them so my feet remain inside the drawers.

“What business is that of yours?”

“Because if you were more experienced, me asking to see your pussy wouldn’t have brought on this reaction.”

When I chew on my lip instead of responding to him, he lets out a soft sigh. In an instant, I find myself standing in front of him, and he brushes his thumb over my lips, then slips it into my mouth. The unexpected invasion should shock me. Instead, I suck, drawing a deep groan from Nate that thrills me, but at the same time, I have a horrible feeling I’ve already ruined my one chance. A man like Nate won’t want a woman who balks at the idea of him looking at her most intimate parts.

But how do I explain the bone-crushing tiredness of trying to keep up with my schoolwork while I worked two jobs after my father died, leaving my mother penniless? How do I tell him that boys were always the last thing on my mind? How do I share that, since coming to Los Angeles, my every waking thought has been consumed with earning enough money to keep my mother in a nursing home, where she has a chance of living out her last days in comfort? The idea of having a man in my life is a luxury I can’t afford. That’s what’s so perfect about this thing with Nate. I can have this one night—a night for me and me alone. Something to keep me warm when I lie alone in the dark, trying to swallow my panic because another bill has arrived that I can’t pay.

He removes his thumb. “How many?” I make a growl at the back of my throat, drawing a bark of laughter from him. “Good to see my Dex is still in there somewhere.”

My Dex? Oh. My. God.

“Twice,” I mumble. “I’ve had sex twice. A guy in high school. It wasn’t memorable.”

His forehead creases again. “Only twice?” He chuckles, and whereas I usually find the rare appearance of his dimples cute, this time, I want to punch him.

“Can you take me back to my car?” I say, determined to leave with at least a shred of my dignity intact.

Nate’s smile falls, and he scratches his cheek, his short, neat fingernails grazing against his stubble. “No.”

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