Page 79 of The Good Girl (Nashville Neighborhood)

I’d never had such strong, conflicting emotions at the same time. I was offended by this accusation, but I begrudgingly knew he wasn’t wrong. At least, he wasn’t about the last few years. I had avoided relationships and hadn’t been interested in anything other than sex.

“I’m not like that anymore,” I said quietly.

His face contorted. He wanted to believe me but couldn’t. “Look, I love you, man, and maybe you’ve changed, but she’s,” he struggled, searching for the right descriptor, “a good girl, and you’re . . .” He did me a favor by not finishing his thought. “There’s no way it wouldn’t end badly. She’ll get hurt, and then that’ll fuck things up between us.”

My shoulders sagged, nearly crashing through the floor. Everything he was saying was right—I knew that. And deep down, I also knew it was too late. It was like I was driving toward the edge of a cliff, and I refused to pump the brakes or turn away. I just kept barreling straight toward it.

“Yeah.” Disappointment clogged my throat, but I hoped he couldn’t hear it. “You’re probably right about that.”

“I am. Forget about Syd,” he said. “She’s not your type, anyway.”

I smiled to hide how hard I had my teeth clenched. He had no fucking clue how wrong he was about that.

TWENTY-ONE

Sydney

I didn’t tell Preston I lasted less than twelve hours before caving. The condom wrapper that I’d tucked in the door’s side pocket was hidden, and yet I felt its presence the entire drive home. It grew heavier and louder the longer I left it, and it was just after midnight when I gave up. The worry over my parents finding it was so strong, it made it impossible to sleep.

Because if they found the black foil wrapper, they’d kick me out of the house, and while I could stay with Colin and Madison, that was a less than ideal situation.

My brother and his girlfriend shot a lot of their scenes at their place, and I knew that because he had warned me multiple times to always text before coming over. Crashing at their apartment, even short term, would make things difficult for them, or awkward for me, or potentially both.

Plus, it’d make it ten times harder to keep up with my ‘lessons’ with Preston, and the last thing I wanted was for those to stop. Or for him to decide I was no longer worth the risk he was taking with his partnership with my brother and drop me.

So, I got out of my bed, snuck down to the garage, and stole back the wrapper. There were already a few bags of trash in the garbage bin, so I moved one aside and ditched the wrapper beneath it, ensuring my parents wouldn’t find it before the garbage got emptied.

Even with that taken care of, the wrapper still dominated my thoughts, because it was a reminder of the scorching hot sex we’d had. I felt a low pull in my center as I got back into bed. There was an ache for him that was constant, incessant.

Shit. Was it normal to be this horny all the time? Preston had unleashed something inside me that was dark and hungry.

I couldn’t use the vibrator he’d given me. Surely my parents were asleep, but the little motor inside it wasn’t silent, and I was terrified of them hearing it. I’d only used it once since I’d brought it home, and that had been in the shower where the overhead fan and the water beating against the tile drowned out all other sounds.

I’d sat on the floor with my back against the cold wall, held the vibrator between my legs, and stayed as quiet as possible when the orgasm blasted through me.

Sydney: I thought about you while using my educational aid in the shower.

That was the text I’d been brave enough to send him later that morning as I got ready for work.

Preston: Such a good girl. Wish I could have been there.

Every time he called me that, it lit me up inside. His praise was a drug, and I was a junkie for it.

I wanted to write back that I wished he’d been there too, but my shy fingers were impossibly sluggish, and by the time I worked up the nerve to start typing, his next message rolled through.

Preston: I’d make you blow me and I’d cum inside your pretty little mouth.

A hot flash washed through me, and I gripped the phone tighter. I’d never sent sexy texts before, and suddenly my mind was running away with itself. Naughty texts were bad, but sending dirty pictures? That would be really bad.

My blood heated at the thought.

Yet as much as the idea had turned me on, I hadn’t been able to pull the trigger on it that day. Not just because I was running behind, but because I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t a clue how to take a picture where I felt sexy or provocative and not hilariously awkward.

Tonight was . . . different.

Maybe because I was amped up from sneaking around and throwing away the condom wrapper, or the relief that I was safe now, but there was a confidence lingering inside me. It was wild and foreign, but exciting too.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and clicked on the bedside table lamp, which cast a small, warm glow around the room. Jitters fluttered in my stomach as I considered what kind of photo to take. Should I do a topless one?

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