Page 35 of Plum

“Oh, baby. Hush. Never mind.” He grabs a condom, rolls it on, and again, he doesn’t slide right inside me. He spends a long, long time smoothing his hands over my shoulders and back, kissing my fingertips, swooping down to lick the divot of my ankle, then nibbling up the inside of my leg to lave at my pussy, twirling his tongue around my clit until I beg him to fuck me.

He doesn’t make me ask twice. He strokes slow and steady until I explode all over his cock, trembling and making no sense when I try to ask for more water, or mercy, or both.

The sun’s coming up when I finally pass out, wrapped in his arms, every inch of me tender, his lips against my temple and his hand pressed against my heart.

???

I wake up alone, naked, and freezing my ass off. Someone’s in the kitchen. I think it’s Adam for a second, until I hear a man’s snore from behind the desk in his loft.

I sit up, and my body freakin’creaks. If I crane my neck, I can make out Adam sleeping in his desk chair. He’s got a pair of sweat pants on, and his head’s tilted straight back. He looks so uncomfortable.

He must’ve been really uncool with the paid help falling asleep in his bed. Heavy was like that. Once he was done, he didn’t want to be rude, but he also wanted you gone.

I rub my chest. The aches are everywhere. I need an aspirin from my purse, and I need to get the hell out of here. It’s so bright; I have no idea how anyone can sleep, let alone upright in a chair.

Maybe he went to check his work email and passed out. That was some high intensity fucking. Even for as fit as he is, that had to have been a workout.

Maybe I should go wake him up. Let him know someone’s in his kitchen. He could be gettin’ burgled.

I sigh and swing my legs over the side of the bed, kicking out the kinks. Who am I kidding? I ain’t never gone to a client’s place before, and I definitely ain’t never been so stupid as to fall asleep, but I know the drill. He gets off; I get gone. If he wanted me to stay, he’d have said.

He said enough touchy-feely shit last night. If he’d wanted me to, he could have said, “Stay. Be here when I wake up?”

My stomach rolls. Shit. Am I hung over? Not from two glasses of wine.

What am I even thinking about? I got stuff to do. I work tonight, and I got a load of laundry in the dryer and the washer.

Andfuck. I also got no ride back to Petty’s Mill. Wall said he’d be at his buddy’s gym late, but after closing time, I was on my own.

I clip on my bra and yank my dress over my head. I can feel that my hair’s a hot mess. It’s kind of tugging too much on one side.

My shoes and panties are in the other room. I glance up at Adam, consider waking him. But what would I say? Thanks?

I’m frozen there a minute, staring at the bed. My eyeliner smudged his white pillow cases, and the sheets reek of sex. Even so, the bedding is blinding white, and even rumpled, it’s clear they’re expensive. They ripple; they don’t wrinkle. I’ve probably ruined them.

Goosebumps break out all over my arms and thighs. It’s so damn cold in here. I tug down my white Lycra dress. I need to go.

I walk out, and I couldn’t be stealthy if I cared to be. I’m almost limping. My pussy’s sore, my hamstrings are tight and aching, and with each step, some joint cracks.

I make my way to the main room, and Adam ain’t gettin’ robbed. I was right. He does have a maid.

She’s a short, older woman in stretchy black pants and a maroon collared shirt that readsRiverfront Home Services. She’s glaring at my shoes next to the easy chair, her nose turned up like she smells shit, and my white lace panties are pinched in her fingertips.

“Thanks,” I chirp and grab ‘em. I step into them at the same time I slide on a heel. The maid folds her arms and watches me.

“Mr. Wade is home?” She’s checking to make sure I ain’t up to no good. I could be pissed, but she’s gotta know my type, so I don’t take offense. I ain’t never been a thief. Shoplifted a bit back in the day, but who didn’t? Still, if I were her, I’d give me the hairy eyeball, too.

“In the back. Sleeping.”

She blinks. This seems to surprise her.

“He’s not usually here this late.” She gnaws on her cheek. Nervous.

“That right?” I’m going for my purse, and wouldn’t you know it, the ice bucket’s still on the counter. With the $18,000 bottle in it.

I wonder if champagne’s like beer where it skunks if it gets cold then warm again. I grab the bottle. The maid narrows her eyes.

“I need cab fare. How am I expected to get home?” It’s a diversionary tactic, but it’s also the truth. It’s probably a hundred-fifty bucks to get a driver to take me back to Petty’s Mill. Wall’s holding my cash, and I don’t have any available credit. Not after the doormat.

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