Page 33 of Crow

Apparently, my brain isn’t too tired to conjure the image of Crow completely naked, showering in his room, in the exact same layout.

It’s wicked, but in my mind, his hand goes straight to his massive cock, stroking down the soapy length of it while he thinks of me. My nipples instantly harden to sharp points, the emptiness between my legs nearly unbearable.

Great. Now I’m pulsing just like the city.

I have zero time to deal with this, but even if I did, getting off to a mental image of a man who has become very real for me, feels wrong. He’s a person with feelings and thoughts, and using him as an object of lust makes me feel guilty.

I want more than just getting myself off. I want it to behishands,hismouth,hiscock.

Even though the shower is a normal temperature, my body is quick to feel overheated. I turn the water off and wrap up in the biggest, fluffiest white towel I have ever seen. There are no less than eight in here, so I use one for my hair as well, wrapping it tightly in hopes that I can cut the drying time.

I have my little cosmetic bag in here, but I hardly own any makeup. That was always a hard no with my parents, even when I was far past being old enough to make my own decisions. I don’t own anything but mascara and lip balm. I couldn’t bring much on the plane with me anyway. My cleansers, toners, and rose hip oil had to stay behind.

I pat my face dry, apply the mascara, and slide on a fresh pass of the coconut vanilla flavored lip balm. I have a toothbrush, but no toothpaste. I’m going to have to remember to duck into a store when I see one.

While my hair dries in the towel, I’m faced with the onerous decision of what to wear. I can’t say that I’ve ever had this problem before. All my clothes were pretty much the same. Shapeless. Chaste.

The bags out in the room are the opposite of boring.

My pulse spikes thinking about the sinful getup that I tried on for Crow. Of all the things I bought, most that I didn’t even try on, I suddenly know what I’m going to pick. That exact outfit.

I leave the bathroom with both towels still on, unpack half the bags until I find everything I want, then snap the tags off. I don’t want to look at the price, but when I catch sight of it anyway, my stomach bottoms out.

The stuff in these bags must have been two grand or more.

I know Crow said he’d make it back, but how can anyone make that much money playing poker? He was so certain, but how can I keep these things, knowing that he paid for them? It doesn’t feel right. At the same time, going over to his room and telling him that I want to return everything in the morning feels like I’d be spitting in his face.

I get dressed quickly, but I can’t stop the confusion that wraps around my brain like fog. Feelings are a luxury. They’re something that I shouldn’t be able to afford, especially when it comes to Crow. Is that what I have, or is it just hormones? Is it both?

In the bathroom, I rush through drying my hair with the blow dryer from under the counter. After a good brushing, it’s light and airy. It’s still half damp on the underside, but it’s hot out there and it will dry. Hopefully not into a ball of frizz, but with no product at hand, I can’t do anything about that.

I give myself a once over in the mirror, gasping just like I did when I checked myself out in the change room earlier.

I almost don’t recognize the stranger standing before me. The face is mine, certainly the hair is too, but from the neck down, I look like someone else entirely. The shirt shows far too much of my breasts. It actually looks like I have something in that department, because it’s cut so low down between them that they can’t be anything other than obvious. It’s cropped above my bellybutton, showcasing my flat stomach, but also the swell of my hips. The miniskirt rides low, the leather ties bisecting the front. It’s so short that it barely covers my butt cheeks, but all I own are granny panties anyway, which cover me thoroughly.They’re black, so they blend in. The thing might as well be a skort, but it still feels sinful.

Sinful in a good way, which my dad would say doesn’t exist, but he’s not right about everything.

I should miss my parents right now. I should be worried about them. I should be fretting about how I’m going to call them, and when, what words I’m going to say, but honestly? It’s the furthest thing from my mind. I’m still drinking in the fresh, pure air of freedom. This is my first night to myself, doing what I want, with who I want, and it feels marvelous.

If the regret is coming, it hasn’t sunk in yet.

Since we’re going to be walking, I choose the flat, heavy leather boots with silver buckles. They’re obviously real biker boots and they’re heavy, but the other option is my flat canvas shoes or the boots with the spike heels. One I probably can’t walk more than ten steps in and the other would ruin the look of the outfit, so these it is.

I grab my purse and I’m nearly at the door when a solid knock sounds from the other side.

I don’t even check the peephole. I know that it’s Crow.

He’s pulled his long black hair into a ponytail. His black t-shirt, black jeans, and black leather jacket all give emo vibes, but his chunky black boots and the ink covering the backs of his hands and scrolling up around the sides of his neck are far too kick ass. The fresh stitches in his face also look badass.

He rakes his eyes over me, taking in every detail. I don’t feel like myself, and right now, I want that, but a trickle of doubt creeps in. I cut it off before it can turn into a torrent, but I keep one hand on the doorknob.

“Is this too much? Are you going to tell me to get changed or to cover up?”

He’s still for an instant, doing that thing where I think he gets up in his head, like he’s having a conversation with himself in there. I can’t explain it, but it’s like he goes somewhere else, tuning everything out. When he crashes back into his body it’s like watching him get a cold chill.

“No,” he scoffs, to cover up the change in his voice. It’s huskier, but only just slightly. If he was any other man and if I wasn’t hopeless at knowing these kind of things, maybe I’d be able to tell if he was attracted to me or not.

If he likes what he’s seeing.

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