Page 111 of The Unraveling

We watch the singer, a gorgeous woman with a dress dripping in emeralds, a massive headpiece on her head. If it weren’t for her 1970s-style curtain bangs, her ensemble would look exactly like a costume straight out of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.

She sings in Spanish, saying something about love and loss, and I try to soak it all in as if it’s mine. As if I belong here.

And yet I’m aware we’re playing with fire. The two of us, out, like this. Like an exposed nerve. And yet I feel safe. Unafraid. Protected, with him. Insulated from the real world. As if we have time-traveled together, to a time where no one knows us and no one can catch us.

I want to. I want to own it. But something inside me tells me not to trust it.

I think of the text I received when I first spent time with Alistair. The one I never got a response on.

Don’t trust him.

Alistair refills our glasses, then gives my hand a squeeze. “Come with me.”

I follow him, splashing a little bit of drink as I go.

He pulls me through a door and into an old phone booth. The window has been covered with opaque film. He urges me in, and then looks around before getting in with me, shutting the door behind him.

It’s cramped, but bigger than the phone booths usually look in movies. The proximity doesn’t feel smothering; instead it just feels hot.

He puts his hand on my jaw and kisses me. He runs his fingers along my lips, and then when I open my mouth, he puts them inside. “Do you like the way your pussy tastes?” he groans in my ear. “Lick them, Jocelyn. Show me how much you love yourself.”

I do as he says, feeling hungry for him. At the same time, he puts his other hand up my dress, planting his fingers flat against me.

I let out a gasp of pleasure and surprise, releasing his fingers from my mouth. He drops to his knees, putting his tongue against the mesh of my thong.

“Fuck!” I say, planting my hands against the walls, bracing myself as my knees weaken. “Fuck, Alistair.”

He moans against me and it drives me even crazier. Then he moves my thong aside and flicks his tongue against my clit.

I finish almost immediately, the surprise an aid in my deep carnal satisfaction. As soon as I do, he unzips his pants and unbelts, asking me, “May I please fuck you, Jocelyn Banks?”

I nod and say, “Please, please fuck me.” Feeling almost dizzy.

He lifts me up, flips me around, and plunges into me and I yell out. Loud. He covers my mouth with one hand while the other holds tightly to my waist. He laughs against me.

“Sorry,” I say, muffled against his hand, laughing for a moment myself before it feels too good to do anything but revel in the feeling.

He fucks me hard, one hand on my waist, the other pulling my tit hard.

Fuck, he’s so hot. I turn my head back to look at him. He’s so fucking good-looking.

No wonder I can’t pull myself away from him. He’s everything I want. Good-looking. Likes me. Protects me. Is incredible in bed. And with him, I don’t have to worry about things like awful medical bills.

I reel my mind backward, taking it away from the stressful thoughts, and wrap my arms and legs around him as he gets somehow even deeper inside me.

“I’m close,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking close.”

“Yeah?” I push my hips into him hard. Both his hands on my waist driving me hard. I begin to move with him. Every time he slams into me, I lift my hips up again for more.

We both breathe fast and hard, the din of the party outside feeling a million miles away. He finishes inside me and I cum just after.

When I’ve caught my breath, he pulls me up, kissing the back of my neck, then says, “You do something to me, Jocelyn.”

“Yeah, you too,” I say.

We compose ourselves, then he walks out first. I wait a moment, then go out, too.

We hold hands for a second, both of us laughing at how outrageous we are.

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